


Improvisations

by powmeow



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Canon Het Relationship, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Love/Hate, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Starfleet Academy, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-09-08 22:24:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 58,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8865643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powmeow/pseuds/powmeow
Summary: Nyota Uhura has perfect pitch, and her sharp ears never miss a beat. She recognizes the ka’athyra’s song as soon as she hears its first strains in a hallway between the Academy practice rooms. Unfortunately, it's being played by her least favorite Starfleet instructor. Fortunately, she convinces him to teach her how to play anyway.





	1. Prologue/The Only Ka’athyra Player on This Side of the Quadrant

_Prologue_

On her daughter’s eighth birthday, M’Umbha Uhura told her to put on her favorite dress and new shoes because she had a treat for her. Nyota, even then not fond of surprises, pestered her mother all afternoon about where they could possibly be going, especially just the two of them. M’Umbha fastened a little comb with a red flower into her daughter’s neat bun and said “Nyota, if you keep asking me, we are not going anywhere. Learn some patience. I promise you’ll like it.”

The two boarded a transport that zipped them from the port city of Mombasa to the glittering lights and tall buildings of Nairobi. Nyota pressed her face against the glass eagerly. It had been some time since they had travelled, and she rarely had her mother to herself.

They got off not far from the main campus of University of Nairobi. Soon they joined the small crowd forming outside of the National Theatre on the north side of campus. Nyota peeked through the well-dressed bodies at the screen displaying the night’s entertainment.

“A ka’athyra performance?” she cried in surprise, tugging her mother’s sleeve enthusiastically. Her eyes were bright with anticipation.

“That’s right, Nyota. By none other than Ambassador Sarek, Vulcan’s most accomplished player. A friend of mine at the university pulled some strings to get us an invitation.”

Nyota tried to hug her mother while jumping up and down on her toes. She had been going through a phase lately of obsessing over traditional Vulcan music. She listened to hours of recordings of ka’athyra performances, driving her sister absolutely insane, and tried to convince her voice teacher to let her sing in Vulcan, despite the fact that neither knew how to speak the language. She was eager to begin class five, when students were given the option of picking up a third language in addition to Swahili and Standard. Nyota already knew what her choice would be.

Their seats were a modest distance from the stage, but the sound was sharp and clear. Nyota closed her eyes and leaned back, resisting the urge to hum along with the familiar hymns. The recordings could not even come close to the pleasure of hearing the song in person, all of the subtleties of sound unfolding in the shell of her ear.

The second to last song was a duet. The middle-aged Vulcan stood and Nyota opened her eyes to observe him. His dark hair already showed signs of gray, and gentle creases were beginning their journey from the corners of his eyes and lips. “I will be joined in this song by my son—” the rest of the ambassador’s sentence was interrupted by a cough from the man sitting in front of her.

Nyota leaned forward. She didn’t realize he had a son. One of the stage hands procured a chair and a boy of perhaps ten or eleven crossed the stage holding a smaller ka’athyra in his hands. His dark little head had a miniature version of his father’s straight cut hair, little pointed ears poking from either side. They bowed their heads to each other, took their seats, and began.

The boy was not as proficient as his father, this much was clear. He was, however, unusually gifted. At such a young age, he managed to play with more nuance than some of the recordings she regularly listened to. Nyota leaned over and pressed her lips to her mother’s ear. “He’s so good!” she whispered in Swahili.

M’Umbha smiled and raised a finger to her lips.

At the reception afterwards, they stayed only briefly. M’Umbha explained that it would be rude to leave without spending some time with her friend who had so graciously gotten them admission to the exclusive event, but promised to take Nyota out for any dessert she liked afterwards.

Nyota wandered away from her mother after a while. There were no children at the event; tall adults of various species lingered in groups, holding glasses of wine and ale. They paid little attention to the small girl weaving about. The reception room, in the new addition behind the original Kenya National Theatre, opened into a beautifully lit garden behind a row of glass paneled French doors, all flung wide open to the night air. Only a handful of guests had wandered outside; the humidity in Nairobi at that time of year was oppressive and unpleasant. Nyota stepped out and circled the fountain. She fished a small toy coin from the purse her mother let her carry for the event (Nyota felt very adult when she wore one of her mother’s purses, even if it was only filled with fake money and lip gloss).

Every old fountain on Earth was filled with ancient coins. It was common knowledge that this had been a human superstition hundreds of years ago—that tossing a coin into a fountain granted wishes and brought good luck. This fountain was a new construction, and the stone under the water’s surface gleamed white in the garden lights.

Nyota clutched the coin to her lips and whispered, “I want to play ka’athyra one day,” even though she knew she would be hard-pressed to find a teacher anywhere on this planet. She tossed the coin in and it hit the surface with a high-pitched _plunk_.

“Why did you do that?”

Nyota spun around to see the ambassador’s son, sitting on a bench by the other side of the fountain, his ka’athyra still clutched in her hand.

“To make a wish.”

“I do not see how throwing a piece of metal into this otherwise clean fountain could assist you in that.”

Nyota didn’t argue. She had read enough about Vulcans to know that wishing was not their style. She shook her head and sat next to him. “Forget it.”

“I cannot. I have perfect memory.”

Nyota giggled, and the boy tilted his head in confusion. She pointed to the instrument cradled in his lap. “Why are you holding that?”

“My father’s is on display for the guests. It is an ancient instrument. Mine is only for practice. I did not want it to be compared beside his, as the university requested, because it is inferior.”

“Why didn’t you just leave it backstage?”

“Because it is my responsibility.”

Nyota was amused by this boy who insisted on speaking like an adult, while maintaining the stubbornness of a child. She swung her legs back and forth and stared at his instrument. The boy seemed to sense her desire to touch it, and held it closer to his chest.

“Play something for me?” she asked at last, when it became clear he would not offer it to her.

The boy looked around at the couple whispering together under a floral tree, the group of human women chatting on the other side of the fountain, and the brightly lit crowd whose shadows shifted on the garden patio. “This is not an appropriate setting.”

Nyota pouted. “Please?”

“It would be disruptive.”

“Then let’s go!” she stood and took a few steps backwards, towards the brightly lit path that lead deeper into the garden.

The boy hesitated. “We should remain where our parents can locate us.”

“Come on, just for a little bit.” Nyota pleaded, resisting the urge to reach out and grab his hand. “They won’t even know we’re gone.”

The boy cast another long look at the reception room. She could tell, even from that blank expression, that he had no desire to go back inside. He stood.

They worked their way through the path, winding through the garden towards the building behind it. They emerged to greet the night sky before the darkened entrance to the conservatory. Nyota raced in front of the boy and up several stairs, turning to face him. “Okay! It’s time for a private performance by the one and only, son of Sarek!” She declared to the sky, stretching out her arms.

The boy continued to hold the harp awkwardly, blinking at her. “What do you wish to hear?”

“Something I can sing to.” Nyota saw that this may be the only opportunity she would ever get to accompany a ka’athyra in person rather than over a recording in her bedroom, and was not one to pass off any opportunity.

He tilted his head. “There are many songs that have vocal accompaniment. Perhaps you could specify an era or style?”

“Make something up.”

“Pardon?”

“Improvise,” she waved a hand impatiently. “And I’ll make up some words.”

The boy looked down at the stringed instrument in confusion. “I was not taught to improvise.”

Nyota’s smile faltered and she dropped her arms, which were still held out on either side of her in a ridiculous display of anticipation. “Oh,” she wasn’t entirely sure if Vulcans were capable of something so emotionally driven as musical improvisation. It was not something covered in any textbooks she had read. “Well it’s not too hard. Just play the first tune that comes to mind—whatever you feel like!” She realized quickly that she said the world ‘feel’ and bit her lip.

When the boy continued to stare, she said, “Like this,” and began to hum a tune—some combination of familiar notes and progressions from Swahili lullabies and church hymnals. She closed her eyes as she hummed, clasping her fingers behind her back and swaying slightly.

She heard the trilling melody of the ka’athyra and a smile quickly stretched across her lips. She began to weave in snatches of words—whatever she could think of in the moment. She and her sister would often play this game while they walked to school, singing out observations they came across along the road.

 _The night is hot and I think it will rain soon_  
_My hair is caught in this red flower comb_  
_I’m with a quiet boy with two pointed ears_  
_And hands that make a song only I can… hear!_

She was very proud of herself for making that last line rhyme. Her song faltered into laughter and the boy stopped playing.

“What amuses you?” he asked, lowering his instrument.

“I’m just happy! That song was so good.”

The boy stared dubiously at her, looking for a moment like he might disagree. He seemed to think better of it because he squared his shoulders and said, “We should return.”

Nyota rolled her eyes, “Okay _fine_.”

“Your voice makes a pleasant sound,” he said as they made their way back through the path.

“Not as nice as your playing.”

“I have much to learn.”

“I think you’ll be better than him one day.”

“Explain?”

“Your dad.”

She was met with the same doubtful look he had given her earlier. She tried hard not to laugh. She had never seen a Vulcan make so many funny faces. Maybe they only got serious when they grew up.

“ _Nyota!_ ” She heard her mother’s sharp, chiding voice as soon as they reached the patio. She was standing at the doorway with a woman dressed in Vulcan robes and a veil. Through the sheer fabric she glimpsed dark eyes and painted lips. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you two!”

The boy gave Nyota a glance that communicated a very strong nonverbal “I-told-you-so.” She crossed her eyes at him and he looked a bit startled by the gesture. She smirked.

He approached the woman, who reached for his hand. “I apologize, Mother.”

“Stay by my side for the remainder of the night.” The woman’s voice remained calm, but Nyota could tell she was upset by how tightly she grasped the boy’s hand. She felt a bit guilty for getting him in trouble.

“I think its time we head back,” M’Umbha also took her daughter’s hand. Nyota reluctantly allowed it, though normally she would have snatched it away and insisted that she was too old for handholding. “It was a pleasure to meet you, My Lady.” She bowed her head slightly at the boy’s mother.

“The pleasure was mine,” she returned the bow.

They parted ways, Nyota tentatively raising her hand in the Vulcan salute she’d learned in school. The boy tilted his head with mild curiosity, but could not return the salute, one hand holding his instrument, the other clasped in his mother’s.

Nyota received a very long lecture all the way to the ice cream parlor for her promised dessert treat, but did not listen to a single word of it. She spent the rest of the night humming the song she had made up, remembering the sound of the ka’athyra strumming under the open night sky.

By the time Nyota enters Starfleet Academy, the evening has faded into snatches of a pleasant childhood memory, and one verse of a silly made-up song that she sang to herself often as she grew up. Vulcans, however, are blessed with perfect memory. The young half-Vulcan, holding the ka’athyra he would outgrow in a few years, does not forget things so easily.

* * *

_The Only Ka’athyra Player on This Side of the Quadrant_

Nyota sticks her hand into the air for what feels like the millionth time. She watches as her instructor’s eyes once again pass over her. He points to a cadet three rows back. She drops her hand and tries to stave off the glare she knows is working its way onto her face.

For weeks, she’s been trying to get the attention of her _Advanced Phonology_ instructor who seems to be insistently avoiding her advances. Phonology is possibly Nyota’s favorite subject (though _Vulcan Literature_ is a very close second), and it frustrates her to no end that this is the one instructor whose favor she just can’t seem to earn, no matter how hard she tries.

She knows the material front to back, raises her hand for every question. The Lieutenant Commander, however, only calls on her as a last resort, when there’s absolutely nobody else in class who knows the answer. Then, reluctantly, he nods at her and says, “Cadet Uhura,” in a voice that sounds, even for a Vulcan, flat and unenthused.

She’s tried a number of strategies to get him to warm up to her. On the first day, she confidently passed the lectern and said, in neatly enunciated Vuhlkansu, _“Good morning, honored teacher_.” He gave her a long, silent look that made her wonder whether she had pronounced something horribly wrong, before nodding stiffly with a brief, “Cadet,” in standard.

Undeterred by the humiliation of that moment, she tried to visit his office hours, arriving with long lists of topics for discussion, all of which he answered as briefly as possible. On the third such occasion, he folded his hands on his desktop, trained his dark, long-lashed eyes on Nyota and asked, “When you are so clearly proficient in this material, why do you continue to attend my office hours, which are intended for students who have questions about concepts they do not understand?”

Nyota had opened and closed her mouth several times before squaring her shoulders and saying, “The topic of this course interests me, both academically and professionally. I’d like to be a communications officer on a starship in the future, specializing in xenolinguistics and subspace communications, and therefore wish to deepen my understanding of the subject.”

He stared at her with that same expression he had given her on the first day—his features still, but his eyes clearly calculating something or the other. “Very well. From now on, I will send you supplementary readings in addition to the regular course material. Will that be sufficient?”

Nyota had the distinct feeling that he was trying to get rid of her. Her jaw tightened, but she kept her tone calm. “For now.”

The class ends and Nyota tries, with difficulty, to maintain her composure as she shoves her PADD into her bag and stalks out. Her eyes meet the instructor’s as she passes the lectern. She can tell that he’s picked up on her displeasure, but she’s irked enough to let a little defiance show. She flicks her gaze away and disappears into the hallway.

Since she was a child, Nyota Uhura has been determined to the point of stubbornness. She has a streak of rebelliousness that pushes her to try things just because someone’s told her she can’t—just to prove them wrong. She concludes, even in this state of quiet rage, that she _will_ get through to Lieutenant Commander Spock one way or another, even if she hates every minute of it.

When she walks into the large practice room in the basement of the music building, Sonia is upon her before she can reach the risers.

“You look like you just got out of _Phonology_ ,” she observes with raised eyebrows. She presses her pointer finger in between Nyota’s eyebrows. “That’s the Lieutenant-Commander-Spock-still-isn’t-obsessed-with-me wrinkle.”

Nyota slaps her hand away and gives her friend an exasperated smile. “I don’t want him to be _obsessed_ with me.”

“You want all of your teachers to be obsessed with you. And to be fair, most of them are.” Sonia is a science-track cadet Nyota met the day she auditioned for the Starfleet Academy Chorale Ensemble. Matching each other in dry wit and impatience, their friendship developed quickly and naturally. She was the first to inform Nyota, having taken computer science courses with him before, that Lieutenant Commander Spock would not be an easy conquest.

They sit on the bottom riser in the alto section, waiting for the President and Vice President to finish shuffling through their sheet music. That’s around when Nyota spots a familiar broad-shouldered figure walking through the door. “ _No_ ,” she lets out a horrified gasp.

“Oh, I know that expression, too.” Sonia turns to the doorway and, as she expected, sees Cadet Kirk walking in with his usual unwarranted swagger.

“Hide me.” Nyota tries to bury her face into her friend’s shoulder but it’s too late.

“Cadet Uhura! What a coincidence.” She sees Kirk’s large feet appear in front of hers.

“Cadet Kirk,” she replies curtly, looking up at him with the scorching glare she’s been suppressing all afternoon. “Are you lost?”

“Nah, I’m just, uh…” he surveys the handful of girls populating the alto and soprano end of the risers, some of whom are now blushing and batting their eyelashes in a way that truly repulses Nyota. “Exploring some extracurricular activities.”

“You know that you have to audition for this ensemble, right?” When Kirk doesn’t respond, instead raising his eyebrows at a particularly lithe-looking Andorian cadet in the third row, she snaps her fingers in front of his face. “ _Hey_.”

“Oh, yeah, but Angie said I could sit in for a few practices… just to see if I’m into it, you know? Plus, I can sing a little.” he looks up at the Vice President and tosses her a wink, to which she blushes and wiggles her fingers. Nyota moans and covers her face with her hands.

 As Kirk takes his place amongst the tenors, Nyota grasps Sonia’s arm and hisses, “ _Is nothing sacred?_ ”

Sonia doesn’t even try to suppress her giggles.

Nyota spends all of choir practice trying to ignore Kirk’s slightly off-key voice, and is practically livid by the end of practice. “Cheer up,” Sonia nudges her as they leave their sheet music up at the front of the room. “Kirk won’t last more than a few practices; he’s been doing these rounds to meet girls in nearly every club on campus.”

Nyota knows this, but she still doesn’t like it. She has to admit, he has a way of making himself known. Even without his famous father, by the end of their second year, not a single person on campus will be able to honestly say they don’t know Cadet Jim Kirk some way or another. She rolls her eyes. _Command cadets…_

Nyota eats a quick meal and heads back towards her quarters with a determination to redeem the day by rehearsing for the solo audition she’s been preparing. She knows she has a good chance, but she also knows that Sonia is just a little bit better. Even when she’s the slightly off or fumbles with lyrics, Sonia’s voice has a thick sweetness that Nyota’s just can’t achieve.

The message screen on her door flashes the letters Nyota wants to see least. _Meditating: Do not disturb._ “Meditating” is Gaila’s thinly veiled euphemism for “having rowdy sex at all hours”. Everyone in their hallway knows it, and Nyota can just faintly hear the familiar pitch of Gaila’s orgasm which she has grown accustomed to hearing through walls, doorways, and often to her horror, waking her up in the middle of the night just several feet away.

Not that Nyota isn’t a perfectly sex-positive, modern woman—it just gets a little inconvenient, having such a hypersexual roommate.

“Gaila, you owe me!” She shouts through the door.

“I’ll make it up to you!” Gaila moans in return. She won’t.

Nyota walks swiftly back towards the music building. Making her way through the corridor between the individual practice rooms, she is confronted with a cacophony of music drifting through the one-way sound isolated rooms. A punk band is playing a raucous number in the first large room, a flautist titters in the next one, another room hums with the orchestral cries of some alien string quartet she can’t identify. A piano practices a choppy rendition of Rachmaninoff and the trembling vibrato of an opera singer carries above it all.

It is a miracle she catches it, faint but unmistakable underneath the myriad noise: the melodic trill of a Vulcan lute. Nyota stands stock still, ears trained on the sound. She follows it through the corridor. It has been a few weeks since she’s listened to a ka’athyra recording, and over a decade since she heard one playing live. Even then, her heartbeat quickens and she becomes once again the small child wishing on a fake coin with all her might.

She trails it to the second to last practice room in the hall. She peeks into the window hesitantly. She sees the arching slope of the lute’s polished wood, tight strings trembling underneath the pale fingers of its player. Her eyes flicker up to his face. She feels her cheeks flush with mortification, frustration. She should have expected this—he is the only Vulcan currently serving in Starfleet. Part of her chose to believe it might be a non-Vulcan enthusiast, or a visiting diplomat or Vulcan Science Academy student—anyone but the stiff, expressionless Lieutenant Commander who provides a constant source of irritation in her life.

She sighs and considers turning away to find an empty practice room for herself, but finds herself unable to move. She can’t help but linger on the peaceful expression he wears, so different from the steely look he turns towards a classroom. His hands move in beautiful, graceful strokes, his fingers arching and curling over the strings. His gaze unfixes itself from the wall, and as though pulled by her eyes, turns to the window. His fingers become still and the sound cuts abruptly.

The first thing Nyota thinks is, _This is absolutely confirmed for the_ worst _day ever._

The second thing is a panicked calculation of excuses and escape routes. She hopes he will ignore her and continue playing, but he is still looking at her and she is still watching him and _Oh God_ , now he’s putting his instrument down and getting up and walking towards the door.

When he opens it, she unconsciously takes two steps back. He watches her retreat and his mouth twitches with momentary hesitation before he says, as calmly as ever, “Can I help you, Cadet Uhura?”

“S-sorry,” she looks down at his polished shoes. “I just… I was coming to use the practice rooms when I heard it… your ka’athyra, that is.”

The Lieutenant Commander’s gaze wanders the hallway. “You _heard_ it?” he says, his tone betraying a slight hint of surprise. The lead guitarist of the punk band is now in the midst of a guitar solo that clashes horribly with the last swells of the opera singer’s aria.

Nyota clasps her hands behind her back and hazards a glance up. “Yeah…”

A long pause passes before he subtly lifts his eyebrows and says, “Impressive. I now understand your affinity for phonology.”

She does somewhere between a shrug and a nod before mumbling, “Sorry to interrupt.”

“It is of no consequence.”

They hover awkwardly at the door for a drawn out moment, before Nyota says, “I, uh, should grab a practice room before they all fill up.”

Lieutenant Commander Spock nods. “Good evening, Cadet.”

Just as he’s stepped into the practice room, before she can think too much of it, Nyota blurts out, “You play beautifully, Lieutenant Commander.”

He stops, turns his head just slightly towards her, but seems to think better of it and does not meet her gaze. “Thank you, Cadet,” he says quietly, before closing the door behind him.

Nyota practices her audition song, but her mind swims with the melody of his ka’athyra. She can sense it on the other side of the wall, despite the fact that no sound breaks through the insulation.

The next day, she explains the encounter at a mess hall table with Sonia and Jackson, a first year tenor they’d befriended when he joined the choir at the beginning of that semester.

“Well, that’s inconvenient.” Jackson points his grilled cheese at her. “I was there for your drunk tirade about how much you want to play that… well, however you pronounce it.”

Nyota blushes and crosses her arms. “God, was _everyone_ there for that?”

“Nearly the whole choir, yes,” Sonia supplies, blowing at a spoonful of tomato soup.

Nyota wonders at how calmly her two friends are eating their lunch. “This is _serious_ ,” she says, pushing away her barely touched soup. “He might be the only ka’athyra player on this side of the quadrant. Who knows when I’ll get another chance like this!” her eyes dart between their faces urgently.

“If it means that much to you, why don’t you just ask if he’ll teach you?” Jackson asks, as if it were the most natural solution.

“ _Because_ …” Nyota recoils. “I can barely get him to actively engage me in class, let alone give me…” she squeezed her eyes shut, “… private lessons.” The thought makes her shudder a bit, imagining being shut alone in a room with him for god knows how long. She imagines him giving her the minimum possible instruction, and then pointedly ignoring her questions.

“Maybe this is your chance.” Sonia shoots her a playful smirk. “Maybe this is the way to your Lieutenant Commander’s heart.”

Nyota grimaces. “I really wish you wouldn’t say it like that, I’ll lose my appetite.” She picks at the crust on her grilled cheese and sighs. “I’ll _think_ about it.”

She does. She thinks about it repeatedly throughout the day. Thankfully she doesn’t have _Advanced Phonology_ that day, or else she might have thought about it for the entire 90-minute class. Finally, on her way back to the second year cadets’ quarters, she makes a sharp turn in an entirely different direction. Specifically, the direction of the Science Center, one of the largest buildings on Starfleet Academy campus. Also, the building with Lieutenant Commander Spock’s office.

She’s in his office and standing in front of his desk before she can overthink how terrible of an idea this is. As he looks up, she inhales. Nyota Uhura will not back down from a challenge, not even the expressionless commander who is staring at her with those very dark, very unreadable eyes.

“Cadet Uhura?”

“Please,” she takes a breath. “ _Honored teacher._ If you can find time in your schedule, would you be willing to instruct me in ka’athyra? I’ve always wanted to learn, very much.” She bites her lip at the end of her speech. She sounds way more like she’s begging than she intended to. She lifts her chin a little bit, as if that will redeem her. She doesn’t like the idea of appearing vulnerable in front of Lieutenant Commander Spock.

He blinks at her several times and then puts down his stylus. “I cannot. Humans do not have the sensitivity to master the ka’athyra.”

“I have perfect pitch,” she insists, putting her hands on the edge of his desk.

“Yes, but—”

“I don’t have to _master_ it, necessarily. I’d just like to become as proficient as possible.”

Spock considers this, though his expression looks a bit patronizing. She supposes that Vulcans might not understand the purpose of trying to learn something, if not to master it. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest and gazing out into empty space with the same contemplative expression. “You have demonstrated exceptional aural sensitivity in class. You were able to pick out my ka’athyra through all of the various sounds outside of the practice rooms.”

Nyota lets herself feel a little hopeful.

At last he looks up at her once more. “I will think about it, and inform you when I have reached a decision.”

This is more than she could hope for. She’s not sure whether to give him a Starfleet salute or a Vulcan one and does a mishmash of the two, before cracking a wide smile—possibly the first smile she’s ever directed at him. “I _really_ appreciate it, Lieutenant Commander. Thank you.”

She leaves the building buzzing with something, though she’s not sure if it’s anticipation, dread, or some odd combination of the two. _He said maybe_ , she reminds herself. A smile creeps onto her face in spite of this. _Maybe is better than no, though._

The sun sets as she crosses campus. Only a few passing cadets hears her sing the silly four-line song she still hasn’t managed forget, even after so many years.


	2. Their Encounter, Though Coincidental, Seems Like a Fortuitous Occurrence

When Spock first saw the roster for _Advanced Phonology_ , he lingered on a particular cadet’s first name. A distant memory from his childhood resurfaced unexpectedly.

He had been travelling with his parents during drought season, when Vulcan schools closed for a month-long recess in order to keep its children from spending too much time out of doors, their developing skin still vulnerable to the most scorching time of year. While his classmates’ families used this time to travel to new worlds and expand their knowledge of alien cultures, Spock tried very hard not to express his displeasure in having to travel, once again, to Earth, where his father always seemed to have diplomatic business.

This particular trip was different, though. He was invited to perform alongside his father at a university in the African continent, by special request of one of the diplomats who resided there. Spock had never performed with his father before. He was surprised, even, that Sarek agreed to it. His father insisted Spock take lessons, and occasionally requested that he demonstrate his improvement, but they had never once played together.

“I believe Spock would provide adequate accompaniment,” Sarek told the diplomat during her visit to Vulcan. Spock tried very hard to contain his excitement and pride at having received such praise from someone who seldom said much of his performance in anything. He subtly shifted away from his father’s side, afraid that Sarek might sense his thrumming emotions. If he did, he said nothing.

Yet, after all the anticipation and rehearsal (Spock never practiced so diligently in his life, spending almost all of his leisure time occupied with his ka’athyra’s many strings), what Spock remembered most clearly about that evening was neither sitting alongside his father under the stage lights, nor the swell of applause that followed the last strains of their song.

It was a small girl’s voice, clear and bright in the night sky, matching his strumming with perfect harmony. It was the first time he felt music go beyond a methodical series of precise actions, into something that was very near emotion.

_A coincidence_ , he thought, closing the document.

On the first day of class, a woman with thick, black hair slicked back into an immaculate ponytail passed his lectern with a perfectly pronounced greeting of _“Good morning, honored teacher_.”

Her voice was as clear as the night they met, resonating through the lecture hall with the same bright tone. Spock’s fingers froze over his PADD. He looked up to meet an unmistakable pair of dark eyes. She was looking up at him expectantly, waiting for him to return the greeting. The way her tongue traced the words of his native language was precise, but also completely off—there was a silken quality to it that would never pass Vulcan lips. It caught him completely off-guard. All he could manage was a curt, “Cadet.”

He knew well before he took roll that this was Nyota.

In the weeks that followed he found that his thoughts wandered towards her often with an intense curiosity—does she still sing? What brought her to Starfleet? How long has she been living outside of the Africa? He resisted looking up her personnel file—his personal curiosity was not sufficient justification for it.

Moreover, she would not leave him alone. As much as he tried to stop thinking about her, she was insistent in her pursuit of his attention. He had met students with this tenacity before, but all were eventually discouraged by his lack of interest in sharing the same level of familiarity that he saw some other instructors engage in with cadets. He preferred to avoid such gestures of partiality.

But Nyota— _Cadet Uhura_ , he frequently reminds himself—would not be discouraged. He began avoiding her during and outside of class, to the point where he was beginning to feel partial in his attempts at impartiality.

To find her gazing through the window of his practice room, watching him so intently, made his mind do somersaults to avoid an emotional reaction. To have her appear in his office, pleading him to teach her how to play ka’athyra, nearly made it cease functioning in an effort not to react.

When he returns to his quarters that evening, Spock sits in meditation for a long time trying, once and for all, to sort out his complicated feelings towards this cadet.

Curiosity is the easiest—they had a significant encounter when he was a child, and it is only natural to wonder then, what has become of her since.

Wonder—understandable. He has not heard her sing since their childhood encounter, but even for a young girl, her voice had been remarkable. He can hear it when she speaks—the sweet timbre of a well-kept singing voice.

Longing—he wishes to hear her sing again.

Frustration—he takes pause for this. He thinks of the strange, almost angry heat that flooded his extremities when he heard her Vulcan greeting. He cannot wholly explain his reaction. But there is the frustration he feels when he sees her pursuing him down a hallway or leaning in close to his desk: she does not remember him. He should not be surprised; humans often lose significant portions of their childhood memories. Yet he feels a pang of hurt when he realizes that a moment that so affected him and his relationship with music had scattered into nothingness in her synapses.

He completes his meditation cycle and puts out the incense he had lit to focus his mind. He feels refreshed, all of his various emotions packaged and compartmentalized like an organized pantry, at his disposal if he needs to reference them, but no longer obstructing his mental path.

 He prepares his evening meal and considers her proposal logically. Strictly speaking, there is nothing inappropriate about it. He had been avoiding spending time alone with her, but that was an emotional impulse. Now it seems much more feasible.

He has just set his soup to simmer when his computer rings with an incoming transmission. He reads the address as his parents’ house on Vulcan. He sits on his couch and begins the transmission.

“Good evening, mother.”

“Evening for you, Spock.” Amanda Grayson squints at him through the warm morning light.

“My apologies.”

Amanda laughs. “How are you doing?”

“That is a very vague question, Mother. Perhaps you could specify.” Spock’s lips curve up and Amanda laughs, resting her chin on her palm. From the shape of the chair he gleans that she is in her study. “I am in good health and my relationship with my fellow officers and cadets have been adequate. I trust you are well?”

“I am,” she smiled. “Your father is off-planet, though. I’m getting a little lonely.”

“I was not aware.”

“Are you _still_ not speaking?” Amanda’s eyebrows shoot up in bewilderment. “You two are so alike.”

Spock’s mouth twitches. He changes the subject to the first thought in his mind. “A cadet asked me to teach her ka’athyra.”

Amanda’s expression does not relax, but manages somehow to become even an even more exaggerated picture of surprise. “And?”

“I am uncertain whether or not to accept.”

Amanda reaches off screen for a cup of tea and sips it without taking her eyes off of Spock. “Why not?”

“I do not know if private lessons with a cadet would be… appropriate.” This is the best reason Spock can conceive for his hesitation. It seems to deepen Amanda’s interest.

“You’ve never worried about things like that before. Wouldn’t it be the same as holding office hours? I’m sure you interact with cadets alone,” Amanda offers, her lips moving against the rim of her tea cup. “Anyway, I thought you’d be more concerned that a human wouldn’t be able to play it properly. Your father certainly made that clear when I showed interest when we first met.”

“She has exceptional aural sensitivity,” Spock explains. “Mastery may not be within her grasp, but proficiency is certainly a possibility.”

Amanda laughs. “Careful, Spock. That sounded very near praise.”

Spock feels embarrassed by this observation, though he cannot say exactly why. It was merely a statement of fact. He is spared a response when a timer goes off. He excuses himself to turn off the heat and serve himself soup. He turns the screen so Amanda can watch him work in his kitchen.

“Just do it, Spock,” he hears Amanda say to his back. “I think you’ll enjoy it. You have to do things for fun every now and then.”

 He turns and leans on the counter, a fresh bowl of soup cupped in one hand, a spoon held in the other. His mother is smiling broadly. She is amused by this development. He nods once. “Perhaps.”

“Okay, Spock. I’ve got a class in a little bit so I should leave soon.” Amanda teaches a Vulcan language and culture class to interplanetary Earth children living in Shi-Kahr. “I’ll talk to you again soon.”

Spock walks across his apartment to end the transmission. “Goodbye, Mother.”

* * *

“Spock!”

Spock turns quickly, unused to being called without a title on Academy campus. He is surprised to see Captain Pike making his way down the path towards him, one hand in the air in a wave that turns into a slightly askew Vulcan salute as he closes the space between them. It has gotten better since Spock had taught him, during his years as a Cadet, when Pike still taught at the academy.

 Spock returns the salute with a slight smile. “Captain. I was not aware that you were in San Francisco.”

“Just arrived this morning.” Captain Pike has been splitting his time between Iowa and San Francisco, overseeing construction and recruiting of Starfleet’s brand new flagship.

“How is the construction of the _Enterprise_ progressing?”

“Very well, Spock. Listen,” he places a hand on Spock’s shoulder and leads him along the path. “Are you heading to a class?”

“I am not. I have just concluded one.”

“Excellent. Join me for lunch.”

Captain Pike has this habit of making statements where humans would typically propose a question. Spock finds he likes this straightforward manner of speaking. He noticed it after his first exam in Pike’s Tactical Analysis course, when the captain called him to the lectern at the conclusion of class and told him, “Accompany me to my office, Cadet.”

Pike wanted to know “how on Earth” Spock was achieving perfect marks in his course, which most cadets only just passed. Spock explained calmly, “Because despite being on Earth, I am still Vulcan.” To this, Pike laughed heartily, and from then they began a rapport that Spock finds intellectually stimulating. It was Pike’s recommendation that earned Spock his first starship commission, where he had climbed ranks quickly after being instrumental in a particularly delicate first contact mission.

They spend the first half of their meal generally catching up, Pike inquiring about Spock’s classes and how he is enjoying being an instructor at the Academy, and Spock asking after more details of the _Enterprise_ ’s construction. In a pause in their conversation, as both focus on their food, Pike places his knife and fork down and says, “Okay. Formalities aside, Spock, I wanted to ask you something in person, before the request processed through Starfleet.”

Spock swallows and pauses, also lowering his utensils. He tilts his head slightly.

“You’ve proven yourself to be not only an exemplary cadet, but also an exceptional officer.”

Spock nods, never one for false modesty.

“I find it unfortunate that we have never gotten the chance to serve together.”

“I, too, believe that serving with you would be a satisfactory experience.”

“Then serve with me,” Pike says with the same certainty he always employs.

Spock raises an eyebrow. “Are you offering me a position?”

A grin slides onto his face. “Be my Chief Science Officer. I can’t think of anyone more qualified.”

Spock stares at him for a long time, processing this request. “On the _Enterprise_?” He asks finally, momentarily at a loss.

Pike’s smile spreads. He knows even through his blank expression that Spock is happy. “Obviously,” he says in a teasing voice.

Spock’s lips curl into a smile—one that could be even called wide, on Vulcan standards. “It would be an honor, Sir.”

Pike claps his hands together. “Excellent. I am hosting a dinner this weekend with the senior staff. You should join us—meet my first officer, chief of security, chief medical officer—everyone will be there.”

“Of course.” Spock nods.

“Great. I’ll transmit you the details when I return to my office.” Pike forks another bite of his fish into his mouth, then points at Spock with his utensil. “You should loosen up a bit, though. I know you didn’t make many friends as a cadet, but I’d really like my senior staff to be comfortable around each other.”

Spock doesn’t see much of an advantage in cultivating personal relationships with his crewmates, but decides he will make an effort to do so to respect his soon-to-be captain’s wishes. “I will attempt to engage with them socially.”

The smile he earns from Pike is rewarding in itself.

On his way back to campus Spock feels a lightness inside of him. He is pleased. A five-year mission in deep space. Exploring new worlds, discovering new life. This was the kind of fascinating expedition he had always hoped for in joining Starfleet. He decides to take a detour though the gardens to observe the flourishing summer blooms he had not yet been able to visit this season.

He follows the path, and has stopped to look more closely at a cluster of large, bright dahlias when a melody drifts towards him form down the path. He recognizes it immediately and stands very still, as if confronting a skittish animal.

_“… my hair is caught in a red flower comb…”_

Spock walks towards it, turning around a bend in the path to see, just a few meters away, Cadet Uhura sitting cross-legged on a bench, a PADD balanced in her lap. She is in uniform, but her hair is loose, the smooth strands dappled with sunlight.

“ _… I’m with a quiet boy with two pointed ears…”_ her song is mumbled, but still coherent. Her voice has developed a richer quality since childhood, deeper and more substantial. _“… and hands that make a song only I can hear…”_

She has just begun singing the little verse again from the beginning when she becomes aware of his approach. She stops singing abruptly. Her eyes were wide with surprise. “Lieutenant Commander. Um…” she looks around, and then back at him. “What brings you here?”

“The weather is pleasant. I am observing the plant life.” He stands in front of the bench and clasps his hands behind his back, feeling suddenly intrusive. “And yourself?”

“My roommate is uh… _meditating_. And it’s way too nice to be in the library. So I thought I’d study out here.” She smiles, opening her palm and gesturing to the gardens. “As you said, the weather is quite pleasant.”

He nods. They stare at each other for a moment, both at a loss under such unusual circumstances. After a moment he sits down beside her, watching the wind stir a row of Marina strawberry trees across the path, branches heavy with fruit.

“If you would still like to be instructed in the ka’athyra, I would not be opposed to teaching you,” he says at last. His meeting with Captain Pike and the hum of insects and birds has put him in a state of relaxed openness that allows him to consider the potential benefits of the opportunity. He has never before had the chance to instruct someone in the instrument he so enjoys playing. Their encounter, though coincidental, seems like a fortuitous occurrence.

“Really?” He looks back at the cadet to see her eyes wide and bright, her hands clasping the PADD in her lap tightly.

 “… Yes.” He says, unsure of why humans always seem to need additional verification.

“ _Thank you.”_ She says in her smooth Vulcan pronunciation. Her shoulders are tense and her face flushed. She unfolds her legs and turns towards him, leaning forward. “H-How do you want to start?” she asks, as if expecting him to pull out the instrument right there.

“I will contact you when I have determined an appropriate schedule and lesson plan.” She is sitting very close now, her features honeyed by the warm sunlight. Spock stands up, startled by an abstract flurry of emotion that confronts him for only seconds.

It will be a long time before it occurs to him that he may have loved her, even then.

He excuses himself and she smiles and waves. When he is a few paces a way, she resumes her song, more enthusiastically than before. He walks slowly, listening to her voice until it fades into the afternoon.


	3. A Ka'athyra Cannot Be Bought or Sold

Gaila scratches at her fingernails with a file and watches Nyota lay out three different outfits on her bed, scrutinizing each of them. She has never seen her roommate really consider her appearance—she has the advantage of being beautiful enough that she can put together an outfit in less than ten minutes and still leave their room looking enviously attractive. Whenever Gaila points this out, Nyota becomes agitated and defensive, annoyingly insistent about how average she is. Gaila finds human modesty generally distasteful, and this adds to the many reasons why, while always respectful and cordial towards each other, she and Nyota are not friends.

This time, her curiosity gets the better of her and she ventures to ask with raised eyebrows, “Hot date?”

“I _wish_ ,” Nyota responds, placing her hands on her hips. “I was invited out by Lieutenant Commander Spock.”

“You’re going on a date with an _instructor_?” Gaila pauses her nail filing and looks up at Nyota. Her roommate has never done anything close to this interesting before. It does make sense that she would be into a Vulcan, though—they are quite possibly the most boring, humorless species in the galaxy.

“ _No._ ” Nyota turns towards her with narrowed eyes. “I’m going to start taking lessons in ka’athyra with him. But he wants to meet at the campus gates, so I’m assuming we’re going out somewhere. I just can’t imagine where. Or what I should _wear_.”

“Oh.” Typical. Gaila returns to her nails. “Just wear your uniform, then.”

Nyota blushes, folding her arms in front of her chest. “That’s… actually a good idea.”

“Don’t act so shocked.” Gaila calls after her as she begins putting her clothes away.

Nyota was absolutely dizzy with excitement after meeting with Lieutenant Commander Spock in the garden. It seemed like he was in a good mood, and she thought that maybe, catching him at that moment was a serendipitous accident. She had eagerly checked her transmissions through the next few days, wondering when he would contact her. She honestly expected him to send a syllabus. What she got instead was one line on Friday afternoon.

 _Cdt. Uhura,_  
_If you are not otherwise occupied Saturday morning, let us meet at the East Gate at 0930._  
_—LtCdr. Spock_

She’s still not sure what he has planned for them, and waits unsurely at the gates, scanning the crowd for his dark hair and neatly fastened officer grays. She almost doesn’t recognize him when a tall Vulcan in a high collared dark green shirt, trimmed with a black pattern, walks up to her. His eyes flick down at her uniform momentarily and she stands straighter. She wasn’t really prepared to see him in civvies.

“You are early,” he observes, adjusting an oddly shaped leather bag slung over one shoulder.

“Only a little. I didn’t want to risk being late.” She bites her lip. “So, uh, what’s the plan?”

“You will require an instrument.”

“Oh.” She says, suddenly understanding. She hadn’t considered exactly where she might acquire a ka’athyra, or the fact that she might need one of her own. She realizes suddenly that he might not want to share his own with a beginner. “Where can I get one?”

“I have located a Vulcan trader in Palo Alto who has an appropriate instrument.” He begins walking towards the nearest transport station, and Nyota follows him a few paces behind. There is something softer about him outside of uniform, without his rank and insignia clips glistening cold and sharp against his body. She stares at the neatly trimmed hairline on the back of his neck, the small sliver of white skin visible above his collar. From behind, he seems like a stranger.

The Saturday shuttle to Palo Alto is crowded. It is only two stops away, so they stand beside each other, clinging to the handholds on the ceiling, trying not to bump too close to the seated passengers’ knees or the standing passengers’ elbows. The high speed shuttle lurches into motion, the station streaking into a blur outside the windows. Spock clings protectively to the leather case nestled between them. It only then occurs to Nyota to ask what might be inside, but there’s a group of rowdy teenagers talking loudly beside them, so she keeps her mouth pressed shut.

The train lurches once more to stop at San Mateo, and one of the teenagers collides into Nyota’s back. Her grasp on the handhold slips and she is pressed against the Lieutenant Commander, whose eyes flash with momentary alarm as she almost falls onto his bag. His free arm is around her in and instant, holding tightly to her waist and pulling her against his side to keep her from landing on his case. The teenagers burst into raucous laughter and promptly begin teasing their friend, who apologies frantically to Nyota and Spock.

“Please take greater care to steady yourself,” Spock tells the boy sternly. She can discern from his curt response that he’s not particularly pleased with the situation. He continues to watch them with a steely gaze while Nyota realizes that he’s still holding her against his chest, her cheek pressed into his shoulder, his hand tight on her waist.

“Sorry about that, Lieutenant Commander,” she mumbles, her hands clenched uncomfortably at her sternum because the only other reasonable place to put them is his chest and she definitely, absolutely does not want to do that.

He looks down as if realizing for the first time that he’s holding her. It takes a beat before he releases her, like he’s reluctant to let her go. “Take care, Cadet,” he says stiffly. Her face flushes.

“I can steady myself, thank you,” she says, stepping away from him and grasping the handhold a little more tightly than before. She can feel the prickle in her own tone. Humiliated, she faces away from him as they depart San Mateo, staring at the multicolored blur outside the windows until they reach Palo Alto.

The walk to the shop is excruciatingly silent, Spock lost in some line of contemplation and Nyota too agitated to make any attempts at conversation.

The shop is small, dimly lit, and uncomfortably hot. Nyota unzips her uniform jacket when they walk inside, but her black undershirt is still too warm and beads of sweat form on her hairline. The room is filled with a miscellany of artifacts, all clearly of Vulcan origin, varying from old and worn to gleaming contemporary.

A striking Vulcan woman is leaning over an ancient paper book at a counter in the back of the room. Her long, warm gray traditional dress, cinched by a silver buckle at the waist, and velvety, earth-toned overcoat make Nyota sweat more. Spock, on the other hand, looks quite comfortable.

“T’Sel,” Spock nods and lifts one hand in a salute. Nyota quickly imitates. The woman looks up and a slight smile graces her features. She is lovely by any standard, with thick dark hair gathered into a twisted bun at the top of her head, her silvery eye shadow matching the decorative clips fastened in it. Her gaze is as severe as her straight cut bangs. She returns his salute. “ _You must be Spock,_ ” she says in Vulcan.

Nyota watches her eyes assess Spock’s appearance carefully before she turns around and disappears into the heavy curtain behind the counter.

 _She’s checking him out_ , Nyota realizes, and purses her lips to suppress a laugh. She wonders if Spock is considered handsome, on Vulcan standards. She supposes she can understand the appeal—objectively speaking, of course. He has sharp cheekbones and a nicely shaped eyes. His direct gaze, in combination with the slant of his eyebrows, _does_ give him somewhat of a smolder. She’s spent enough time trying to catch his eye in class to notice this much.

Her thoughts are interrupted when T’Sel reemerges, holding a slender ka’athyra, smaller and made with a lighter colored wood than Spock’s. It has a subtly different angle to the curve of its neck, and its head is carved like a curling leaf. Nyota is breathless for a moment, wanting very badly to run her fingers over the polished wood. Spock gives it an experimental strum and then plucks at each string individually, adjusting the knobs and listening to the clean sound. It’s clearer and brighter than Spock’s instrument, with something a bit more feminine in its tone. She loves it instantly.

“ _This is acceptable._ ” Spock concludes after fiddling for a few more moments.

“ _What can you offer in return?_ ” The woman folds her hands at her stomach.

Spock places the leather case onto the counter. Nyota had momentarily forgotten about it, and now leans in curiously as he unfastens its clasps. Inside is another ka’athyra, much smaller and made with dark wood. “It is a ka’athyra made for a Vulcan child, handcrafted in Shi-Kahr by Sarek himself, made from the heartwood of a tree grown in his family’s orchard.”

The woman picks up the instrument and runs her slender fingers along its neck, testing a few of the strings. “Very well maintained,” she observes. “And made by the hands of Vulcan’s most accomplished player.” Nyota thinks she sounds rather impressed.

“ _Please, if I may—”_ Nyota begins, thinking that now might be a time to wonder what kind of contribution she can make to this transaction, but is cut off by both of their gazes turning sharply towards her.

“ _You speak our tongue_.” T’Sel’s expression is close to amusement. “ _Though your tone is…_ ” She raises her eyebrows and looks away. “ _In need of refinement_.”

Nyota’s feels her face become hot with embarrassment.

Spock looks a bit uncomfortable himself. He places a hand on her shoulder and says in Standard, “I will handle this, Cadet,” with such finality that she shrinks back. The woman carefully examines the small instrument for several more minutes before deeming it acceptable.

“ _Your business is appreciated. Live long and prosper._ ” The Vulcan woman says with a salute as they prepare to leave. Nyota is sure T’Sel lingers longer on Spock than strictly necessary as they part.

Spock hands the ka’athyra to Nyota and for a moment she is speechless. “It is yours,” Spock says at last, when she has no words to offer.

Nyota runs her hand over the smooth wood, touches the strings gingerly. “I’ve never held one before,” she whispers. She looks up to see him watching her carefully, his expression thoughtful. “ _Thank you_ ,” she says in Vulcan.

He touches the neck, his hand close enough to hers that she can feel its warmth. “It is a fine instrument. Its tone is like your voice. It will be well-suited to your ear.”

Nyota wonders how long he had searched to find such an instrument, or if it had been mere coincidence that he came across it. He releases it and offers her the cover. She secures the instrument into the leather case and slips it onto her shoulder. She feels giddy as they step out into the daylight, in a good enough mood to say with a teasing smirk, “She liked you.”

“I do not know what you mean,” Spock replies after a pause.

“Of course you do, Lieutenant Commander.” He looks down at her with an expression so near mortification that she laughs. “Where did you find a ka’athyra made by Ambassador Sarek? She seemed pretty taken with it.”

“It was mine as a child,” he says, as if this has no significance whatsoever.

Nyota stops walking. “ _Yours?_ I can’t accept this!”

Spock walks another few paces before stopping and turning to look back at her. “I do not understand your reluctance. I have not used that instrument in many years. It is unnecessary.”

“But isn’t it, I don’t know… _important_ or something?”

He blinks. “No. A ka’athyra cannot be bought or sold, Cadet Uhura. It has been this way long before currency was made obsolete. It must either be made by hand or exchanged for another.”

 “Oh.” Nyota looks down at the instrument and runs her fingers over its leather case. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

“Repay me by being as diligent as you are in my _Advanced Phonology_ course. Treat this instrument with respect and become proficient.”

Nyota looks up to see the corners of his mouth ticked up. It’s the first time she’s ever seen him smile, however slight. Her chest swells a little at receiving praise from the teacher she had been chasing since the first week of class.

Spock and Nyota return to campus at a leisurely pace. They sit on the sunlit patio of a small café for tea. Nyota eats a salad and watches carefully as Spock names each part of the instrument, tells her its purpose, and explains the ways it can be adjusted. She repeats back the words in Vulcan and he watches her mouth move with such a strange expression, that Nyota vows to ask her Vulcan Lit teacher to correct her accent as soon as possible. When they part at the gate, Nyota is surprised at how pleasantly the afternoon passed, and how drastically different Spock is outside of class. The way he handled the instrument was careful and tender, and showed her a gentleness she didn’t expect from him. She finds herself looking forward to their next lesson.

“You look happy,” Gaila says when Nyota returns to their room. “Did your date go well?”

“It was _not_ a date.”

“Please,” Gaila rolls her eyes and gives a meaningful glance to Nyota’s unzipped jacket. “The only thing that ever makes anyone smile like that is a good date or a great fu—”

“ _Neither_.” Nyota says firmly, her smile dropping.

Gaila scrunches her face. “What is _that_?” She points to the leather case.

“A ka’athyra.”

“Well you’d better not be playing it in here.”

* * *

 

Sonia and Jackson are considerably more enthusiastic about the instrument than Gaila. Nyota brings it to choir rehearsal and watches proudly as her two friends pass it between each other gingerly.

“It’s beautiful,” Sonia sighs at last. “Though I can’t imagine playing it. How many strings are there, again?”

“Too many.” Jackson grins and hands the instrument back to Nyota. “But you’ve got the best ear in the choir.”

Nyota begins to clip it back into its case. “I’m meeting with Lieutenant Commander Spock after practice to start learning Vulcan scales.”

“Sexy.” Sonia raises her eyebrows.

Nyota sticks her tongue out in a mock gag. “Gross, Sonia.”

She shrugs. “I’m just saying. It sounds like you had fun on your little date this weekend.”

“Ugh, now you sound like Gaila.” Nyota places the instrument carefully at the edge of the practice room and they shuffle towards the risers, where nearly the entire choir is already sitting. The three gather in the corner—it’s the solstice concert planning meeting, so there’s no need to sit by section.

“You’re not giving her nearly enough credit,” Jackson says as they sit down. “There’s no way she would be into anyone that boring.”

“ _Thank you_.” Nyota gives him an appreciative nudge with her shoulder. He runs his fingers through his hair and looks down with a small smile. Sonia stares at them for a long moment before scoffing and turning her attention to the front of the room.

“Why don’t you try me, then?” An eavesdropping Cadet Kirk scoots down a row to sit behind them. “I’m pretty interesting.”

“Like hell.” Nyota rolls her eyes and refuses to look at him. “I’d even take Lieutenant Commander Spock over you.”

“Who’s that?” Kirk asks, but she’s spared a response as the president and vice president take their places at the front of the room.

The solstice meeting is as disorderly as it was the previous year. Jackson leans over several times to whisper to Nyota, “Is this normal?” The matter of contention, as always, is which non-Terran songs to feature. Last year they had done Argelian, the year before that, when Nyota had been visiting campus, she had seen them perform Andorian. This year’s leading option is Tellarite, but it’s a very contentious choice—Tellarite music is not entirely pleasant to most ears, and the screeching notes are rather rough on most species’ vocal chords.

“Their music is very passionate, though,” one cadet says, albeit half-heartedly.

“Well, politically speaking, we should do a Federation planet,” the president says, looking at her notes on the PADD she’s holding. “The solstice concert is kind of a big deal—there’ll be prospective students, Starfleet personnel, visiting Federation allies… we need to make sure everyone’s happy.”

“What about Vulcan?” Jackson suggests. Everyone turns to stare at him. First years are rarely so outspoken.

Nyota sits a bit straighter, and Sonia whispers, “ _Suck up_ ,” into Jackson’s ear, earning an elbow in the ribs.

“Well… we’d have to work our _asses_ off.” The vice president says hesitantly. “And live accompaniment will be hard to come by. Almost everything Vulcan has ka’athyra backing.”

“What about Lieutenant Commander Spock? From what I hear, he’s pretty good.” Jackson suggests innocently.

A chorus of laughter ripples through the room. “There’s no way Lieutenant Commander Spock, of all people, would agree agree to accompanying us,” the president waves her hand dismissively.

“Well, Uhura’s getting lessons from him,” Kirk pipes up. Nyota gives him a murderous look and a painful jab in the knee.

The entire choir faces her with expressions ranging from mildly surprised to utterly baffled. She shrugs. “Yeah, I mean. I just started.”

“Well, can you ask him for us?” The vice president asks her, clasping her hands under her chin. “ _Please?_ ”

Nyota sighs. “Sure. But don’t get your hopes up.”

Despite having promised this, Nyota finds herself hesitating when faced with the Lieutenant Commander’s somber demeanor. Alone in one of the practice rooms, sitting on two chairs side-by-side, she feels like a trapped animal. He has corrected her fingering for the third time when he sets down his instrument on his lap.

“Cadet. You are distracted. Ka’athyra requires discipline. If you do not master your focus, I cannot teach you.” Spock’s face is as still as ever, but Nyota hears a trace of disapproval mixed with disappointment in his tone.

“Sorry. I’m just… I’ve been wanting to ask you something.” She bites her lip and looks down.

“Speak freely, Cadet.”

For a moment she is sure he sounds impatient. The usual resentment flares up inside her chest, and she considers swallowing her words and walking out. But, she made a promise. “I am a member of the Starfleet Academy Chorale Ensemble,” she begins.

“Unsurprising, given your talents,” he says immediately.

Her eyebrows rise and she hesitates for a moment. His matter-of-fact delivery of praise catches her off-guard every time. “Well, for the solstice performance we do every year, we’ve been considering doing some Vulcan hymns. But we prefer to have live accompaniment for this concert.”

“Vulcan hymns are quite difficult to master. Do you truly believe you are capable of performing them adequately?” Spock raises a doubtful eyebrow.

Nyota lifts her chin indignantly and stares at him through narrowed eyes. “Certainly, Lieutenant Commander. We have many months to rehearse.”

“Cadet, it would be expedient for you to arrive at the purpose of sharing this information. What is your question?”

“Isn’t it obvious to you yet?” Nyota feels her eyes roll up before she can stop them.

Spock gives her a long look and she can see the muscles in his jaw twitch just slightly. “I am not in the habit of making assumptions. I have observed indications of frustration from you when I refuse to do so. However, it would be more more efficient, and eliminate the possibility of misunderstanding, for you to simply speak plainly, rather than carrying on with an expectation that I constantly make intuitive leaps to fill in missing information.” He says all of this quickly, with each word perfectly enunciated. She is almost certain that he is as close as a Vulcan can get to openly aggravated. For a moment she doesn’t know what to say, her ears ringing with pent up irritation.

“Or perhaps it would be more _efficient_ if you used some of that Vulcan intelligence so that I don’t have to state the obvious,” Nyota snaps. “You’re one of the best ka’athyra players I’ve heard in some time. Would you be willing to accompany us or do you find us too incapable?”

They stare at each other in a heated pause, both of them sitting with the posture of a bristling cat. Unconsciously, they have leaned closer, and for a tense moment the instruments between them seem to be the only thing keeping them from an altercation of sorts. Nyota is fairly certain she’s just earned herself a demerit. She watches the Lieutenant Commander’s gaze dart from her eyes to somewhere lower on her face and then back up to her eyes again.

“On the contrary, I find you to be exceptionally capable, and would find it acceptable, perhaps even agreeable, to accompany you. Your choir.” The last amendment is strangely out of character for the Lieutenant Commander who never misses a syllable, but Nyota is too struck by the sudden compliments to notice.

“Great,” she says, her voice far more sarcastic than she intended. “We’ll work out a schedule over transmission.”

“That would be acceptable.”

In awkward silence follows, Nyota waits to be reprimanded for her brazen behavior.

Spock does not, however, offer any rebuke, and instead begins to pack up his instrument, snapping the buckles on with quick motions. “I must return to my quarters,” he says without looking up at her. “I have some business to attend to. We will continue our lesson during our next scheduled meeting.”

Uhura flips open her comm and notes that it is still several minutes before they had agreed to end the lesson. She doesn’t complain. She packs up her instrument as well and they exit the building in silence. The day is just beginning to wane, the sky turning a peachy orange along the edges of the western buildings in the quad.

The lieutenant commander gives her a polite goodbye before they part ways, and Nyota watches his broad shoulders recede for an extended moment before she turns. The longer she spends with Lieutenant Commander Spock, the less she understands him, her assumptions of his character and habits solidifying, then crumbling, then reassembling themselves without rhyme or reason. She still hasn’t decided if she’s beginning to like him more or less each day.


	4. This Attraction is Highly Inconvenient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely neglecting my other fic for this. Tropey fics are just too fun.

“So how are the ka’athyra lessons going?”

As usual, Amanda brings up the topic her son least wants to discuss. They are chatting over subspace video transmission as they both grade papers—an activity they often enjoy doing together.

Spock pauses, holding his stylus up over his PADD without looking up. “Adequately. Cadet Uhura improves steadily each week. We have progressed from scales to simple folk songs.”

“How long has it been since you started?” Amanda scowls at something on her PADD and stops to scribble out a long comment.

“One month, two weeks, and three days.”

Amanda smiles and looks up at him. She always delights in both his and his father’s ability to recount exact numbers rather than approximations. Early in her acquaintance with Sarek, she would ask him things like “How long has it been since you last visited this restaurant?” or “Exactly when will we arrive at our destination?” just to hear him recite the time to the second. It is one of the few things Spock knows about their courtship—something he has great difficulty imagining.

She notices him deliberately avoiding her gaze and raises an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“That is a vague question, Mother. Please elaborate.”

“You seem a little… agitated.” Amanda purses her lips. It is rare to see her son exhibiting any emotional status, positive or negative. “Are the lessons not going well?”

“As I said, they are—”

“Is it the choir practice then?” she gives him a conspiratorial grin. “Are they that bad?”

“No, they have been performing the selected Vulcan hymns unexpectedly well.”

“Then what is it?”

Spock hesitates for a moment, and then puts down his stylus. “I have reason to believe that Cadet Uhura dislikes me.”

To his surprise, Amanda begins to laugh. “Oh, Spock.”

He frowns.

His mother’s expression is a mixture of disbelief and amusement. “You’re sulking because your favorite student doesn’t like you?”

“I do not have a favorite student—it is illogical to have such preference when attempting to make impartial educational assessments.” Spock says defensively.

“Of course, of course,” Amanda waves her hand. “I’m not saying you’re giving her any preferential treatment. But I’ve been a teaching for many years, and I can tell you for sure that even if you don’t _act_ on that preference, every teacher has a favorite student.”

Spock is unconvinced. “It is not that I favor her as a student,” he argues, despite having a nagging suspicion that he might. “I simply find her animosity inconvenient given the frequency with which we interact.”

“Well, however you want to put it.” Amanda shrugs. “Why don’t you try some kind of bonding activity—where you can talk about things outside of academics and lessons. Sometimes it helps me if I meet personally with difficult students to understand what their life is like outside of school. Then I can get a better sense of their needs, and what methods of teaching are most effective with them.”

“… I am unsure what kind of activity would be appropriate.” He cannot imagine such an encounter with Cadet Uhura, or what she would even agree to do with him.

“Well aren’t you lucky to have a mother with just the thing in mind.” Amanda smirks. “I have two invitations to your father’s ka’athyra performance on the Earth’s Lunar Colony—for you and a companion.”

Spock clenches his jaw in an attempt to hide his displeasure at the idea. He has not seen his father outside of official Starfleet business since he left Vulcan to enroll at the Academy. He does not like the idea of doing so for the first time with Cadet Uhura in tow.

“Oh, you won’t have to see him.” Amanda rolls her eyes, catching his poorly masked distaste. “You can just come for the performance and leave. But if you come, you _will_ get to see me.”

This is a far more pleasing thought. It has been several months since he has seen his mother in person.

“And I’d like to meet this Cadet Uhura who seems to be taking up so much of your time. If she likes ka’athyra as much as you say, I’m sure she’d love to see Sarek perform. It’s a pretty rare opportunity.”

Spock tries to picture what kind of face she would make if he asks her. He thinks of the way she gazed at him through the window on the first day she found him in the practice rooms—the fixed, rapturous expression, lips slightly parted.

“I will consider it.” he tilts his head at last, and the way Amanda beams convinces him that she is already expecting to see them there.

* * *

“Sonia!” Cadet Uhura is the first to react as her friend crumples to the ground mid-song, during a particularly extended note. The choir falls silent, save for a few gasps and exclamations. Spock places his ka’athyra down and rises from his place on a chair beside the risers, his Starfleet emergency training immediately taking over. As he crosses the room and takes the cadet into his arms, he is momentarily uncertain whether he is responding to the urgent situation or if it was Cadet Uhura’s sharp cry that caused him to jump up so quickly.

There is no time for that line of thought—he shoves it into the back of his consciousness and focuses on the girl limp in his arms. He lays her out on the tile floor, cupping her head gently. He checks her vitals—stable, but her heart rate is slightly elevated. He presses one of his sensitive ears to her chest, analyzing her breathing. There is something rough about the way the air rushes in and out of her lungs.

“I will take her to the infirmary. It will be faster than calling emergency services.” The East Infirmary is just two buildings away—a quick jaunt, and much easier than explaining the situation over a comm call, and then waiting for a paramedic. He picks her up carefully, being sure to hold her head elevated. Her small, pale face leans into his chest and she utters a short rasp.

“I’m coming with you,” Cadet Uhura says firmly, standing up with him. He takes one look at her fierce expression and knows he does not have it in his power to dissuade her.

“Very well,” he nods. The two of them cross the quad in quick stride, earning puzzled looks from passing cadets and officers. As soon as they enter the infirmary, medical personnel are upon them. Spock lays Cadet Blanco on a stretcher and explains in the quickest terms what happened as they fasten an oxygen mask to her face.

Cadet Uhura remains in the waiting room, speaking urgently into her comm. She has just flipped it closed when he joins her. “I called Sonia’s brother,” she explains, shoving the device back into her pocket. “He lives in San Francisco, so he’ll be here really soon.” She lets out a shaky breath and sits down. “Thank you for your help, Lieutenant Commander.”

“I did what was necessary.” He considers what he will do next. He should file an incident report, collect his ka’athyra from the practice room, begin reviewing tomorrow morning’s lecture—anything except what he actually does, which is sit down next to the cadet.

“As far as I could discern, she is not in any imminent danger.” Spock says, unsure of what other comfort to offer. He does not have the expertise to determine the cause of Cadet Blanco’s sudden illness, and does not want to give Cadet Uhura false reassurances. She sighs again in response. He feels an impulse to put his arm around her, but does not indulge in it.

Since they began spending more time together, Spock has been plagued by sudden urges to initiate physical contact with Cadet Uhura. Whenever they touch accidentally, he finds it difficult to pull away. He is drawn to her unwillingly: the sharp look in her eyes, the way her lips move when she speaks, even when she is upset— _especially_ when she is upset, and her mouth tenses in a way that twists his insides.

He reminds himself often that it is not unreasonable to be attracted to Cadet Uhura. She is an objectively attractive woman—he catches many others, cadets and officers alike, casting long, lingering looks on her face and figure. He has noticed during choir rehearsals that her friend, first year Cadet Jackson Hunt, watches her attentively, even when they are not conversing, and touches her 45% more often than necessary.

However, this attraction is highly inconvenient, given the fact that he sees her so often between _Advanced Phonology_ (where she never fails to occupy a seat in the first row), their biweekly ka’athyra lessons, and the choir practice he attends once per week.

The two hold a long silence, listening to the din of passing medical staff and the low-volume newscast playing on a holoprojector in the corner. At last, Spock says in a low voice, “You may be excused from your scheduled ka’athyra lesson tonight, if you would like to be with your friend.”

“That’s very kind of you.” She looks up at him and tilts her head. “I’m surprised you haven’t pointed out yet that there’s really nothing I can do.”

“That is true,” he leans back and folds his fingers between his knees. “However, humans find proximity to their companions comforting in moments of distress. I did not want to deny you that comfort.”

She flashes him a quick smile—rare, for him to be on the receiving end of such an expression. Though he has observed her to be generally amicable and pleasant with others, she almost never directs such warmth towards him. “That is shockingly considerate of you, Lieutenant Commander. But you're right. There’s nothing I can do once her brother gets here. A little music might keep my mind off it. Besides, I’ve been practicing.”

Cadet Blanco’s brother, an engineering lieutenant in his thirties, arrives then, eyes wide with concern. He thanks them profusely, promising to call Cadet Uhura as soon as he has a clearer understanding of his sister’s health.

They return to the choir room to gather their instruments and upon finding it empty, decide to carry out their lesson there.

Cadet Uhura sits on the risers facing Spock and he holds his instrument in his lap, allowing her to demonstrate the song they have been working on for the past couple of weeks. Her execution is impressive, especially for a human. Afterwards, they return to the refrains that she stumbled on, playing them more slowly. Spock demonstrates the correct finger positioning, and is thankful when she is able to observe and echo his movements accurately. He does not dare touch her hands.

“You have been improving,” he says once he is satisfied with his corrections.

“Is that why you’ve been nitpicking lately?” she replies with a sidelong glance.

“You will not continue to improve if I am not critical.” He frowns. She smirks and he raises an eyebrow. “I see. You are not upset, just feigning anger in jest.”

“How astute of you, Lieutenant Commander.”

“Humans have truly peculiar humor.”

For an odd, anomalous moment, they are smiling at each other. He wonders if this is the right moment to ask her about the concert. He is in the midst of devising an appropriate way to pose the question when she interrupts his thoughts.

“There’s something else I’ve been practicing. May I?” She holds her instrument in position, waiting for his assent. He nods and she clears her throat. Spock sits straighter. The song he had been teaching her has a vocal component, though it has not been part of their lessons. Cadet Uhura has apparently done her own research. Her playing is clumsier this time, but he finds he does not mind. The room, fitted with optimal acoustics for vocal performance, swells with the crystalline quality of her voice. The intimate way her lips wrap around Vulcan syllables is more pronounced in song, drawn out in the leisurely tempo of the lyrics. Spock feels his mouth become dry.

Each time he manages to cram his feelings back into their rightful place in his mental framework, her voice yanks them back out. There are fleeting instants when she sings, gazing out at something unknowable in the middle distance, that he feels something beyond attraction—something foreign that he cannot name. He wants suddenly to reach out and press his fingers onto her temples, see what it is that brightens her eyes in such a captivating way.

He feels it when they argue as well—an urgency that puts him on edge, and makes him almost snappy. The sparks that seem to glimmer in her eyes during strong displays of emotion have a strange way of provoking him. The impulse alarms him.

It takes a moment for him to realize that she has finished her song. “What do you think?” she asks hesitantly, after he is unresponsive for too long.

He is not sure what to say. ‘Beautiful’ is a sentimental and inadequate term. ‘Fascinating’ sounds too detached. ‘Incredible’ would be an exaggeration; she made many mistakes. Her expression is just beginning to harden into telltale signs of irritation when they are interrupted by the chirping of her communicator. She places the instrument down and jumps up, nearly dropping her comm in an effort to answer the call as quickly as possible.

“Matt? Hey! Is she okay?” Cadet Uhura’s face fills with instantly evident relief. They lock eyes and he knows without verbal explanation that whatever ails Cadet Blanco is not serious. He nods and she disappears into the hallway to take the call.

* * *

Spock stares at his screen for a long time, his communicator clutched in his palm, staring at his console. Cadet Uhura’s profile from his class roster is open, her comm ID underneath her name and room number.

He had returned to his quarters and attempted to review his curriculum for _Advanced Phonology_ , but could banish neither Cadet Blanco’s condition, nor Cadet Uhura’s distress from his thoughts. He considered meditating on it, but at last settled that a comm call inquiring about Cadet Blanco’s health might be appropriate. Still, he finds himself hesitating before dialing her number. Perhaps she will consider it invasive, inappropriate?

After some extensive mental debate, he dials her at last.

“This is Nyota Uhura.” Her voice is puzzled, formal. The sound, isolated from her physical form, invokes memories of her as a child.

“Cadet Uhura.” There is a long silence on the other line. He realizes he has not introduced himself. “It is Lieutena—”

“I know,” she says quickly. “How can I help you?”

“I was calling to inquire about Cadet Blanco’s condition. I understand that you visited her in the infirmary after our lesson.”

“Oh.” Her surprise is evident in her voice. “Yeah, uh… it’s an Andorian infection that she contracted on a research internship this past summer. It’s slow acting, so it didn’t show symptoms until now. Something about slowly freezing her lungs—I’m not sure about the details.”

“Is it treatable?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. A month-long hypo regiment will take care of it.”

“That is good.” After a moment’s hesitation, Spock adds, “I hope that your anxiety on the matter has decreased?”

Her laugh vibrates pleasantly against his ear. “Yeah, a lot. Though… well, we’ll see what happens with the choir. She might not be able to sing for a while.” Another long pause follows, ending with Cadet Uhura saying unsurely, “So I’ll… see you in class tomorrow?”

“Yes, although… I had an inquiry.”

“Yeah?”

“I have two invitations to attend a ka’athyra performance by Ambassador Sarek on the Lunar Colony next Saturday evening. Would you like to accompany me?”

For a moment he can only hear her breathing. He just begins to regret his question when she replies with an enthusiastic, “Oh my god, yes! I haven’t seen him perform since I was a kid!”

He briefly wishes that he had asked her this question in person. He would have liked to see the expression that accompanies the delight evident in her voice.

“We will have to stay overnight on the colony—there are no available civilian transports back to Earth after the concert’s conclusion. Does that conflict with your schedule in any way?”

“Um…” there something odd in the stillness he hears on the other end of the comm. He can almost see her face twist into displeasure at the thought of spending such a prolonged time with him. “No, no. That’s fine.”

“You have no obligation to continue in my company after the performance,” he adds, hoping this will quell her reluctance.

“Okay….” She does not sound cheered.

“I will transmit you the travel information later tonight.” Spock suddenly wants to end their call as quickly as possible. “Good night, Cadet Uhura.”

“Good night, Lieutenant Commander.”

Spock stares at his darkened kitchen as he tries to imagine such an extended period alone with Cadet Uhura. An unfamiliar nervousness buds within him at the thought.


	5. The Music is the One Irrefutable Point That Unites Them

“ _Overnight?”_ Sonia makes no efforts to hide her amusement. “You’re going to be his date to this fancy lunar soiree, and then you’re going to stay there overnight with him?”

Nyota snatches Sonia’s PADD out of her hands and smacks her on the arm with it. “Why do you always have to make everything sound _way_ weirder?””

“Because I’m your friend.” Sonia opens her palm expectantly and waits for Nyota to return her PADD. She does so reluctantly.

“Well it’s not that weird. He said the word _accompany_ , not _date_. I’m not sure if he even knows what a date is.” Sonia’s eyebrows shoot up. “And he made a point to tell me that we don’t have to hang out afterwards—which I’m pretty sure is his way of saying he doesn’t _want_ to. Which is good, because I don’t want to either.” Nyota crosses her arms over her chest resolutely.

“One day, I’m going to trick you into admitting you have a crush on him.” At this, Nyota makes such a disgusted face that Sonia starts laughing, only to have her laugh become wheezing.

“Hey, take it easy.” Nyota leans forward and places a hand on her shoulder. “Do you want me to call a nurse?”

Sonia waves her hand. “No, no,” she says hoarsely. “This happens. You just have to stop making me laugh.”

They exchange grins before Nyota says, “Then I’ll have to stop visiting. You always find some reason to laugh at me.”

“I’ll be glad for a break this weekend.”

“Hey…” Nyota leaves her hand on Sonia’s shoulder as she says, “… How long until you can sing again?”

Sonia sighs. “I guess I have to tell you guys at some point. Not for three months, at least. So no Solstice Concert for me.”

Nyota tilts her head and lets her hand run through Sonia’s dark, wavy hair. “You earned that solo, though.”

Sonia shrugs sullenly. “Nothing we can do about it…”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault. Plus…” Sonia cracks a smile. “Now you’re guaranteed to get the Vulcan solo. Which is probably better, since your pronunciation is way better than mine.”

Nyota frowns, not comforted by this observation.

“Oh, come on, don’t worry about me. Have fun this weekend.”

* * *

On the morning of their departure, Nyota receives a transmission from the Lieutenant Commander that says simply:

 _Cdt. Uhura,_  
_It is not necessary for you to wear your uniform on this trip. Bring formal attire for the concert._  
_—LtCdr. Spock_

This fills her with fresh humiliation. It wasn’t her imagination after all; he had definitely taken note of her uniform the last time they were off-campus together.

Nyota arrives to the station early, wrapped in a trench coat to hide the nice dress that would draw eyes on a civilian transport. Predictably, Spock arrives precisely on time. There’s something distant about his eyes when he approaches her, looking a bit weighted despite being burdened only by a small overnight bag.

“You feeling okay, Lieutenant Commander?”

“Yes.” After a moment he concedes, “I have been quite busy overseeing the construction of the science station on the _Enterprise_.”

“The _Enterprise_?”

“I have been assigned the duty of Chief Science Officer. Therefore, I have been assisting Captain Pike with the specifications of my station.”

“Oh. Wow. Congrats.” Nyota offers a quick smile, tries very hard not to reveal the fact that she’s been following the construction of the _Enterprise_ hungrily since the day it was announced, waiting impatiently for its lower rank postings to open up. She’s determined to earn her first assignment aboard the legendary vessel, no matter how many extra hours she has to spend in the communications lab to achieve it.

“Thank you. Unfortunately, it has been 68 hours since I last rested. I apologize if my mental faculties are slightly sluggish.”

“ _68 hours?_ That’s ridiculous.”

“Not for a Vulcan. I have been supplementing with brief periods of light meditation.” He says unaffectedly, and she clamps her mouth shut, embarrassed by the oversight.

They board side-by-side. He offers her the window seat and she finds no reason to decline. He quickly occupies himself with reading something on a PADD and Nyota can’t help but shoot him sidelong glances every few minutes as they wait for takeoff. She seldom spends so long this close to him, elbows touching on the armrest between them. He’s much taller than she typically considers him, seated with his ka’athyra or a distance away at the front of a classroom. Despite being rather tall, she reaches only just under his earlobes. He’s wearing Vulcan-style clothing today: a black, robe-like tunic with an asymmetrical fastening, faint silvery script following the hem at its collar. It makes him look unexpectedly foreign, with his blank face and focused eyes. As if sensing her observation, his eyes flick towards her for a moment and she looks away quickly. She watches Earth recede below them, the sky thinning until they begin to see the curved shape of the atmosphere.

“You have seen Ambassador Sarek perform before?” Spock says suddenly, and Nyota almost jumps.

“Oh, uh… yeah. When I was a child.”

He pauses, the asks, “Did you enjoy it?”

“It was incredible.”

Spock is looking at her like he wants to ask something more, and his gaze, at such close proximity, presses into her. She looks down at her lap.

“If I may ask, what motivated you to want to learn ka’athyra? It is an uncommon interest for a human.”

She hazards a glance up to find him looking at her with his full attention, his hands folded over the PADD asleep on his lap. She has the amusing notion that he might be trying to get to know her better. She lets her lips quiver into a small smile. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“I hardly ever do.” He tilts his head in confusion. “Is there something humorous about your interest?”

It might be the dim lighting in the shuttle, or how annoyingly close they are sitting, but for a moment the first word that jumps to her mind, as he cocks his head like a puppy, is _cute_. She wrestles it away. “I was _obsessed_ with Vuhlkansu when I was a kid. Thought it was the prettiest language. And then when I was seven, I saw a broadcast of Ambassador Sarek playing a Vulcan funeral song during the memorial of the _Kelvin_ ’s destruction and I thought it was the coolest instrument.”

“You must know that Vulcan is, in reality, quite hot. On human standards.”

Nyota blinks at him, bewildered for a moment, before he lifts an eyebrow. She laughs. “You make jokes, Lieutenant Commander?”

“Employing humor is logical in social conversation.”

Nyota crosses her arms and leans her shoulder against the window. “Shocking. Well, anyway, it was just a childhood fixation that stuck, you know?” Spock’s lips part as if he’s about to respond and she quickly adds, “Sorry, of course you don’t know. I’m sure Vulcans don’t linger on childhood emotional whims like that.”

Spock closes his mouth and pauses before saying, “I would not make such an assumption.”

Nyota squints and is about to ask him what the hell that means when he returns pointedly to his PADD. A long silence passes before she pulls her own device out in resignation. This pattern has been repeating itself since their lessons began: one minute he’s open, conversational—friendly, even—and then without warning he’ll shutter up, all cool indifference and silent judgment. Nyota’s not sure which is the _real_ Lieutenant Commander Spock—the almost deliberate exaggeration of Vulcan demeanor, or the times when he seems, to her, nearly human.

Lunar One comes into view slowly, a gray web of chambers and tunnels glinting in the unfiltered sunlight. Inside the main complex is rather Earth-like. The night sky stretches across the holographic ceilings and the buildings are in the same architectural style as most of Starfleet Academy campus. They walk without speaking, Spock a few paces ahead with his hands tucked behind his back, until they reach the entrance of a conference center. The glassy façade displays the night’s various programming in crisp white text.

They both check their overnight bags in the lobby, Nyota shedding her coat at last to reveal a velvety dark red dress, hugging tight to her neck in front and opening to expose her shoulder blades at back. She had gone back and forth, asking Gaila’s opinion intermittently, between this and a more conservative black dress. She was finally convinced by Gaila’s insistence that black was boring and anyway it washed her out—colors were always more suitable. The only jewelry she wears is a pair of slim bronze earrings that hang low enough to nearly graze her shoulders.

She takes note of how everyone else is dressed as they approach the theater and puffs out a sigh of relief. She has chosen appropriately. She was beginning to get nervous with the way Lieutenant Commander Spock is following her with his eyes, jaw tight and face completely unreadable.

She decides it must be just as jarring for him to see her out of uniform as it was for her to see him in civilian clothing that first time. Still, something about his look sends a faint shiver down her spine. When he stands behind her she feels a strange tension in her shoulders, as if she’s expecting something to happen, though she’s not sure what. Distracted by this, she doesn’t notice an Andorian man brush past her, and stumbles slightly as he jostles her. The Lieutenant Commander’s hand is on her bare shoulder instantly—a light touch that to her doesn’t seem to serve any purpose besides making her stomach flip with its sudden warmth. She doesn’t dare turn around. She hears his voice, closer and more intimate than she expected, imparting a low murmur of “Cadet, please be—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence and she is able to attribute the way her heart begins to race to her surprise when a female voice exclaims suddenly, “Spock, there you are!”

Spock steps away from her quickly and they both turn towards the call. A woman approaches them in a long, dark blue dress, her head wrapped in a shimmering gray scarf. She’s beautiful, with wide, dark eyes and a warm face. The creases at the corners of her eyes are the only feature giving away her age. She closes the space between them with a delighted smile that dimples her cheeks on either side of her lips.

She grasps both of Spock’s hands in hers as soon as she reaches them. Nyota tries not to let her mouth hang open when rather than recoiling, the Lieutenant Commander smiles and closes his eyes, leaning down to press his forehead against hers. She releases one of his hands and trails her palm along his cheek and down to finger the collar of his shirt. “You look more like your father every day.”

Spock’s large hand curls around her petite one and holds it against his chest. “Father would often argue that it is you whom I resemble.”

The woman laughs. Her eyes wander away from Spock’s face and finds Nyota who is, at this point, very close to gaping. “Oh, you must be Cadet Uhura. Spock has told me so much about you.”

Nyota stutters something incoherent.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself, have I?” She stretches out her hand. “I’m Amanda, Spock’s mother.”

Nyota is at a loss for words as she shakes Amanda’s hand numbly. Finally, she manages to say, “Cadet Nyota Uhura.”

“What a lovely name.” She smiles and clasps her hands at her waist. “Oh, you seem to be quite shocked. I’m guessing Spock hadn’t told you about his human mother.”

“I did not purposefully withhold that information,” Spock interrupts quickly. His voice sounds entirely different directed at his mother—uncharacteristically gentle. “It was just never pertinent in any of our conversations.”

Amanda runs a hand along Spock’s arm. “Of course.”

“Sorry, no I…” Nyota returns to herself with a breath and smiles brightly. “I didn’t mean to… I was just a little surprised. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for the tickets, I’m really happy to be able to see Ambassador Sarek perform again.”

“Again?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “How rare. He hasn’t performed in years.”

Nyota shakes her head, slightly embarrassed. “Well, I mean. The last time I was just a kid.”

Amanda squints at her and then says slowly, “ _Nyota_.” Her eyes light up with some realization. She opens her mouth to speak when Spock squeezes her shoulder.

“Come, Mother. Let us take our seats.”

Nyota follows them several paces behind, nibbling her lower lip. She’s not sure what to make of this information. It would certainly explain some of the contradictions in his character. Something about him unknots before her. She watches the way he leads Amanda gently, one hand pressed protectively against her back. He leans over to whisper something in her ear and she laughs. When she leans away from him, his profile reveals a smile. For a moment, Nyota can’t bring herself to hate him even the slightest bit.

The concert is, as expected, breathtaking. Despite his blank, still face, Ambassador Sarek’s fingers weave such emotionally rich melodies across his old, well-worn ka’athyra, Nyota is, at one point, almost moved to tears. She turns to look at Spock. Amanda is leaning her head just slightly against his shoulder. Spock’s eyes find hers and they hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. Their mutual enjoyment is communicated clearly—filling the hall with stunning resonance, the music is the one irrefutable point that unites them. She sees that tenderness she only glimpses occasionally when he’s playing his instrument. She realizes that he must be quite happy. She knows this peace is tenuous, that outside of these doors they will fall back into their usual disagreements and annoyances, but in spite of this, she smiles. She’s surprised when he smiles in return.

After the concert, they linger outside the theater, chatting with Amanda.

“Are you coming to the reception?” she asks. Nyota looks up at Spock, partially hoping he’ll say yes so that she can maybe chance an encounter—even a quick “live long and prosper”—with Ambassador Sarek. He shakes his head and Amanda pouts.

“You are aware that I do not wish to meet with Father tonight.”

Nyota itches with curiosity but she doesn’t dare ask. She scans a small group of austere, willowy Vulcan men exiting the theater and wonders if one of them might be his father.

Amanda sighs. “Well, fine. That’s better, anyway, that I get to have him all to myself. He’s been off-planet for ages—tonight’s the first time I’m seeing him in _two months_.” Amanda strikes a tragic expression for effect.

“Mother, as usual, the implication of your intimacy does not disturb me. It is understandable, and I wish you a pleasant reunion.” Spock’s eyebrows rise playfully.

“Oh, it never does. You’re no fun.” She leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. “You two have a pleasant evening as well.” She leans in to hug Nyota, who returns the embrace stiffly, discomfited by her tone.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees a flash of color rush to Spock’s ears and his expression become something close to embarrassment, just for a second. His alien-ness begins to diminish just a bit.

They collect their belongings and wander through the streets of Lunar One. The hour is nearing 2300 in Lunar Standard Time, and the sidewalks are sparse. It’s not until Nyota stops at a vending unit for a nutrition bar (not the most delicious, but good enough considering she skipped dinner and everything seems to already be closed), that Spock ventures to say, “I apologize for my mother.”

Nyota laughs, unwrapping the bar. “She was wonderful.”

“She seemed to imply something—”

She interrupts him with a shake of her head. “Ugh, please, I know you’re Vulcan, but you don’t need to say it out loud. I know she was just teasing, trying to get a rise out of you. My mom’s the same way.”

They approach the Pod Complex—the only civilian accommodations available on Lunar One—just as Nyota finishes her bar. Spock opens the door for her, letting her enter ahead. She checks in her reservation and the man at the counter hands her a keycard. She lingers, waiting as Spock talks to him. After a brief conversation he approaches her. “It seems all pods are occupied for the night.”

“You didn’t make a reservation?” She furrows her brow. “Lunar One has really limited accommodation. It’s _always_ booked on the weekend. You have to reserve a pod at least a three days ahead.”

Spock pauses. “I was not aware. On my previous visits to Lunar One, I have stayed at Starfleet accommodations, or onboard a ship.” He looks around the empty lobby before saying, “I shall occupy myself until our transport time.”

Nyota watches him meander towards the exit before sighing with resignation. “ _Wait_.” She places her hands on her hips and to her own shock and awe, says, “Stay with me.”

“I do not require as much rest as humans. One sleepless night will not do me any harm.” He is very evidently uncomfortable with her proposition.

“Lieutenant Commander, respectfully, may I point out that you haven’t slept for _68 hours_? That is a long time, even for a Vulcan.”

“I admit I am quite fatigued,” Spock says hesitantly. “But it is a pod. I do not believe it would entirely appropriate for us to share such an accommodation.”

Nyota is unconvinced. The Lieutenant Commander is very nearly swaying with exhaustion and she can’t just leave him to wander the night on Lunar One—which is admittedly not the safest colony, prone to petty thefts. Clearly, he’s stubborn enough that he would rather stay up all night than bite the bullet and ask his parents to stay with them. She sighs again.

“Okay Lieutenant Commander. Think of it like a survival simulation: if we were in a shuttle crash in a tiny escape pod on an inhospitable planet, and had to sleep in the shuttle together, would that be inappropriate?”

“No,” he says reluctantly. “But we are not.”

Nyota does not know why she is insisting. The whole day has been strange and unreal, with lurching, unexpected twists and turns. After watching the affectionate way Amanda cupped her hand against his cheek, something twists her gut and compels her to reach for him. She touches his arm and realizes immediately that this might be the wrong thing to do. Still, she refuses to back down. She gives him an unwavering, determined look. “It won’t be weird, I promise. It will be completely… professional.”

He stares at her for a long time, lost in an inner debate, before finally saying, “I am very fatigued.”

She smiles. “You must be, considering that’s the second time you’ve said that.”

They take the lift up to the fourth floor and walk down the hallway to the Pod at the very end. Nyota swipes her card and they stare at the tube-like room. There is only space enough for a narrow bed, that reaches all the way to the far wall to meet a circular window with a thin curtain. There’s a small strip of carpet between the edge of the bed and the right wall, on which there’s a mirror, a clock, and several hooks.

Spock is assessing the space with a look that suggests that he wants to get right back onto the lift. “It’s not that bad,” Nyota offers half-heartedly. “I’m going to go change.”

She returns from the communal showers very thankful that, uncertain of the climate, she had packed her workout pants rather than shorts. She tugs her t-shirt over the tight fabric self-consciously regardless.

She finds Spock still in his clothes, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring blankly at the closed door across the hall. He really does look tired, and slightly listless.

“Aren’t you going to change?” She asks as she reaches him.

He stands and unbuttons his shirt, pulling it off so that only his black undershirt remains. He hangs the garment on one of the hooks and says, “This is adequate.”

They both stare at the bed as though it’s a complex astrophysics equation. “Okay.” She exhales. “I’ll take the wall side, ‘cause you have longer limbs that might want some space.”

He nods and sits cross-legged on his side of the bed, watching her tap the door closed and locked. When she turns around the space suddenly feels quite small. He stretches out and lies perfectly still and straight, closing his eyes and folding his hands on his stomach. The small space by his shoulder begins to intimidate her. “Maybe we should do back-to-back.”

He opens his eyes and looks the most uncomfortable she has ever seen him, before turning stiffly onto his side. It seems like he doesn’t typically sleep on his side because he struggles awkwardly with his arms for a bit before finally settling with one behind his head and the other draped over his stomach. Nyota slides into the space between his back and the wall and says, meekly, “Lights.”

The room goes dark and all she has anchoring her is the warm pressure of his back against hers. She leans her forehead against the wall and closes her eyes, willing herself not to fixate on the rise and fall of his breathing. It’s a long time before Nyota is able to fall asleep. She blames it on the jet lag.

She wakes with a start what feels like moments later, but when she opens her eyes the room is already bathed in the thin light of early morning. She immediately closes them again. It takes her a moment to regain enough consciousness to realize she is no longer facing the wall, but is lying with her cheek pressed against warm fabric. Another moment to realize that she’s lying not on a pillow, but on someone’s muscular forearm, and that same someone’s large hand is resting gently on her hip. She reluctantly opens her eyes and finds herself face to face with a sleeping Lieutenant Commander Spock, their noses just inches from each other.

_Oh._

Nyota swallows and resists the impulse to hold her breath. She makes sleepy, distant observations about his long eyelashes, the angles of his slightly parted lips, and the way his usually sleek bangs are mussed where his forehead meets the pillow. How he smells like a pleasant blend of clean linen with traces of incense.

_Shit._

She closes her eyes to stop the sensory assault of the man who is her instructor and superior officer. A man she is now unwilling to turn away from, despite her better judgment. A man she is beginning to realize is quite attractive.

_No._

She knows before it even begins that this is a bad line of thought. She doesn’t even really like him that much, but denying a purely _physical_ attraction is becoming difficult, especially when his mouth is shut. She hates to admit that he was right; this was a bad idea. Still, in the small hours of morning, when he’s deep in sleep, she indulges just this once. She tucks her head under his chin and lets her cheek fall against his chest, her knuckles brushing against the soft warmth of his stomach. She can feel his slow, even breathing against her ear, and this sensation soothes her and allows her to fall back asleep. It will be a long time before she admits to anyone—even herself—that she did this. When she wakes up, she will convince herself that it was just part of some bizarre dream.

But she knows that she’ll have to concede her attraction to Sonia the next day, and that her friend will give her the smuggest look imaginable and never _ever_ let her live it down.


	6. Cadet Uhura Has Proven Herself to Be An Exception to His Every Rule

As Spock returns to consciousness, he is surprised by how warm he is. Even in sleep, his body is efficient at regulating his core temperature, yet he wakes swaddled in an unfamiliar, yet soothing warmth. For a moment he lingers on the threshold of sleep, not wanting to emerge from this comfort. He hears her breathing before any of his other senses return to him. He feels her hand loosely clasping the fabric on his waist next, the pads of her fingers pressing into his side like a constellation. The clean, pleasant smell is from her hair, tucked into the crook of his neck. His own hand, he realizes with mortification, rests somewhere on her body. He opens his eyes hesitantly.

He does not know when or how he had turned to face Cadet Uhura. He had been exhausted and slept very deeply. He is not accustomed to sleeping on his side; he passes every night lying in the optimal sleeping position, on his back. His body might have been restless given this change. Still, he is not prepared to find her facing him, nearly embracing him, in the early morning light.

He should not have agreed to spend the night with her in this way. Even though for her, it is professional, insignificant, completely devoid of any feeling, he knows that for him it is not.

He gently disentangles himself from her, sliding his arm carefully from under her head, letting it sink into the pillow. Her hand falls from his waist and rests on the bed in front of her. Her sleeping face is smooth and calm. She seems much more at peace than she does with her brow wrinkled into a scowl. He touches her hair before he can stop himself, his pulse pounding in his ears. This is very likely the closest he will ever get to her. He lets his finger slip down along her jawline.

He pulls back quickly and turns away from her. This was a _very_ bad idea. He gathers his cloak and bag and leaves the complex as quickly as he can, attempting to put as much distance as possible between himself and sleeping Cadet Uhura.

He has walked a swift, aimless block when his communicator chimes. It is his mother.

“Let’s get breakfast!” she exclaims, evidently awake and in a good mood. “Don’t worry, your father won’t be joining us,” she adds impatiently when Spock does not respond right away.

“Very well.”

“Bring your Cadet protégé! I’d love to have a chance to sit down and chat with her.”

“She is still sleeping,” Spock says, and wonders immediately if that statement has revealed anything about the events of the previous night.

His mother seems to pass over it because she says, brightly, “Well I guess it’ll just have to be a date between us.”

They agree to meet at an antique fashion Earth-style diner across from the Starfleet lodgings, where she and Sarek had spent the night.

His mother is already in a booth sipping coffee when he enters. She sighs as he sits down. “You really can’t get good coffee outside of this solar system.” She pushes a menu towards him.

Spock scans it and puts it down. “I will consume something of higher nutritional value upon returning to Earth.”

She smiles. “Suit yourself.”

A server walks up to them and takes Amanda’s order (a short stack of pancakes with blueberries inside and strawberries on top, and a side of fruit salad). She laments to Spock about how much she misses Earth fruit, which is expensive and rarely found in Vulcan markets.

Spock makes a mental note to send her some preserved berries via intergalactic courier at his next opportunity.

“So… Cadet Uhura.” Amanda busies herself cutting another slice of pancake as she says casually, “You didn’t tell me she was so beautiful.”

Spock keeps his face still. “I did not think it was relevant.”

“So you agree?” Amanda looks up at him, a forkful of pancake paused midway to her mouth. “You think she’s beautiful?”

“Objectively speaking, Cadet Uhura possesses many features that might be considered—”

“ _Spock_.”

“… of course I do,” he says quickly. “Most would.”

Amanda gives him a smile that looks entirely too self-satisfied for his comfort as she chews her food. After she swallows, she squints out into some distance beyond his shoulder and says, “You know, Spock, a mother doesn’t forget the moments that her child is missing. It’s a very innate, instinctual panic that gets ingrained in her mind—as to not repeat it, you see—very useful evolutionary trait. Now, I _do_ have this distinct memory of a night in Earth’s African continent when you disappeared for quite some time. One moment I saw you sitting on that bench, the next— _gone!_ ”

Spock knows immediately where this conversation is going.

“What’s more—and this is what really sets this memory apart—there was another mother in the same state as me! Now I knew it couldn’t be a coincidence, but I just couldn’t imagine _my_ Spock sneaking off with some human girl to _play_ of all things.”

Spock dislikes his mother’s penchant for drawing out stories in this manner. While it had entertained and delighted him when he was child, as an adult he finds that she employs it primarily as one of her many methods of teasing him.

“Imagine my surprise when you two came out of the garden together!” she laughs and spears an orange slice. “And if I’m not mistaken, that girl’s name was _Nyota_. Is that right?”

Spock nods stiffly.

“Quite a coincidence!” She laughs again and pops the fruit into her mouth.

Spock almost physically sighs. He gently pushes the salt and pepper shakers with his fingertips until they are aligned in the exact center of the table. “You know very well that Cadet Uhura and the child named Nyota are indeed the same person.”

“It explains why you’ve been acting so odd about the whole thing.” Amanda places an elbow on the table and leans her cheek against her palm. “Forgive me. It’s rare to see you behaving so… human.”

“She does not remember,” he says at last.

“You certainly seem to. What happened between you two that night?”

“Nothing unusual.” She raises her eyebrows doubtfully and he concedes, “She had a remarkable voice, even then. It was… striking.”

“You _like_ her.” Amanda says, bemused.

“I would prefer not to continue this conversation. It is… inappropriate to speak of a cadet in this manner.” Spock says slowly.

“Spock, it’s perfectly normal, you know. At your age.” Amanda’s expression turns sympathetic. “Though I can’t say I ever expected to have this conversation with you. I figured you would marry T’Pring when the time came, and that would be all there was to it.”

“That is another matter which makes it necessary for me to behave with discipline in this situation.”

Amanda’s lips twist into a frown. “You don’t have to marry her if you don’t want to, Spock. Breaking a Vulcan betrothal is not unheard of.”

“It would be disrespectful.”

“Your father did it,” Amanda says with a smile. “For me.”

Spock is unsure how to respond to this. Amanda spares him by turning the conversation. They do not mention Cadet Uhura again until they part outside the diner. “Send Nyota my regards,” she says into his ear as they embrace.

He passes Cadet Uhura the message during the transport ride home, but she seems tired (perhaps she had not slept well in such a cramped space the previous night), and the two spend the remainder of their journey mostly in silence, lost in their own thoughts.

* * *

Spock is surprised when the Vice President of the Academy Chorale Ensemble (whose name, he recalls, is Angela, though she prefers to go by Angie) approaches him after class on Monday and asks him whether he can spare an hour of his time that afternoon. He agrees, but is surprised to find the choir room occupied only by the President (Christine, but prefers to be called Christie), Angie, and Cadet Uhura.

Angie motions him to an unoccupied third seat on one side of a table at the front of the room, while Cadet Uhura alone occupies a chair on the other side.

“Alright, I think we all know that we’re here about the solo,” Christie begins. Spock did not, but he stays silent. Christie directs her attention to Cadet Uhura. “You and Sonia were really close picks, but we _had_ intended to pick Sonia. Unfortunately…”

Cadet Uhura bites her lip. “Yeah, I know.”

“Well,” Angie cuts in, “You have a wonderful voice, so it’s not a loss. But… well, we showed the recordings of both your auditions to one of the Vulcan language professors, just to see whose pronunciation was better, and yours was definitely more precise, but… well he said there was something a little off about your _tone_.”

Cadet Uhura sighs. “So I’ve heard. What’s the verdict?”

The two girls look at each other uncomfortably. “You have this sort of… _intimate_ way of speaking…” Christie begins.

Angie cuts in with a sigh, “Basically, you have the Vulcan version of a _bedroom voice_.”

Cadet Uhura’s eyes go wide, and then her face flushes visibly. “ _What?_ ”

“The way he put it,” Christie says, massaging her temples, “Was that the emotional cadence you use is one typically only used in privacy between… lovers.”

Spock wants very much to be in any situation, occupied with any task, other than the scene currently unfolding before him.

Cadet Uhura buries her face in her hands in humiliation. “What should I do?”

“Well, most of the department instructors are very busy this semester, so we were _hoping_ that, being a native speaker, Lieutenant Commander Spock might be open to… coaching you through it?” Christie’s voice crawls into a higher pitch with each syllable. “Since you’ll be the one accompanying her, anyway?” All three girls are looking at Spock now. He swallows.

“I…” He is not able to divine an acceptable reason to decline. Their request is reasonable, logical even. “I can attempt to.”

Cadet Uhura looks away and fidgets. “That sounds… fine.”

“Great! We’ll let you work it out.” Both Christie and Angie seem relieved at this development. After some pleasantries and many profuse thanks, they leave Spock and Cadet Uhura alone in the practice room.

“Are you… busy now?” Cadet Uhura asks unsurely as they sit across the table from each other.

“I am not.” He decides it is better to complete this task as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Cadet Uhura pulls out her PADD and brings the lyrics up between them. She speaks each line to him and he repeats them in the correct pronunciation, and she tries to mimic his tone. For the most part, she is successful. Spock finds himself very thankful for her exceptional aural sensitivity. He realizes then what catches him off-guard, makes him pause each time she speaks Vulcan. Each line she speaks echoes in his head and makes his ears grow hot and his fingertips rush with blood. If he looks her straight in the eyes, his pulse quickens minutely.

“You have not had much opportunity to speak Vulcan outside of the classroom,” he observes finally.

“No,” she says wryly, looking down. “Not really that many opportunities to do so outside of the academy. Though I did always wonder why my marks in oral presentations in Vulcan were subpar compared to my other language courses. I was always certain my pronunciation was perfect—I practiced over and over.”

“… if you would like…” he says hesitantly. “You may practice speaking in Vulcan with me.”

Her eyes light up. “ _That would be acceptable,_ ” she replies in Vulcan.

“ _That would be acceptable_ ,” he repeats in the correct, even tone.

“ _That would be acceptable_ ,” she says again, mimicking his accent. She smiles. “If I ever want to take the intimacy out of my accent, I’ll just imagine your speaking voice.”

Spock does not know how to respond to this. He finds that the statement does not please him.

“Not that—” she laughs nervously, “I mean…” she trails off, though he is not entirely sure what she ‘means’. “I’m sorry. It seems like I’m always kind of a pain for you.”

“Only in your insistence on leaving sentences unfinished.”

She squints at him. “Is that a… joke?”

“Only partially.”

She laughs then, and he smiles, just slightly. “Thank you.”

He tilts his head. “I did not have any pressing occupation this evening.”

“No I mean… for all of it. Even though you’re frustratingly serious, annoyingly logical—”

“Are those intended as insults?” Spock raises an eyebrow.

She laughs again, before saying, “No, really. You’ve actually been very accommodating. Everyone says you’re this unapproachable, intimidating person but… I wonder if anyone has ever _actually_ tried approaching you about anything. You’re surprisingly… nice.”

In fact, other cadets have tried to approach him on many occasions, with a variety of requests and inquiries that he declined. Cadet Uhura has just proven herself to be an exception to his every rule. He will admit this to her one day, but not just yet. Instead he says, “Your thanks are unnecessary. It has been… enjoyable, playing music with you and your peers. As you have not had the opportunity to converse in Vulcan, I have not often had the opportunity to collaborate musically.”

Then they are smiling at each other again, but something seems different. The smiles are too long, too lingering. For a moment Spock wants to confess their childhood encounter, how important it had been, how much it had opened him up to the pleasures of making music that he had not previously understood. Instead, they are interrupted by a knock on the doorframe. They both turn to see Cadet Hunt leaning against it, his eyes darting between them unsurely.

“Jackson!” Cadet Uhura jumps up, smoothing out her uniform. “What’s up?”

“Angie told me I’d find you here. I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner together?”

“Yeah!” Cadet Uhura’s face brightens, and Spock suddenly feels a vast distance between them.

Alone with her, he had begun to forget their places. Cadet Hunt’s presence is a sharp reminder that whatever closeness he was beginning to selfishly imagine between them is impossible.

* * *

In the weeks leading up to the concert, Spock observes Cadet Uhura spending increased time with Cadet Hunt. He finds his eyes drawn to their figures walking across the quad together, how they drift towards each other when they take breaks during choir. He notes how Cadet Hunt always seems to be making Cadet Uhura laugh. He begins to wonder about the nature of their relationship, and has to consciously halt this useless speculation before he dwells on it too long.

The winter fog descends upon San Francisco, bringing with it a steady chill. Spock’s morning run through the quad becomes a hazy gray, his walk home at night cool and crisp.

One afternoon in mid-December Captain Pike calls an emergency meeting with the senior staff of the Enterprise. When everyone is gathered together in a conference room in the Academy, Pike details a short mission he recently accepted from an Admiral whom he owes a favor.

“I thought it would be a great opportunity for some teambuilding,” he says. “It’s fairly straightforward—we have to transport some ailing colonists to Vulcan for medical treatment in a small ship. Trick is, they’re some fairly important xenobiologists and we’ll be transporting them right through some nasty Orion pirate space. Nothing we can’t handle though, right?” Captain Pike receives some enthusiastic agreement through the room before he continues. “I volunteered for it because I thought it might be a good chance for us to get to know each other _out there_ , you know?” He spreads one hand in the air above his head. “It’ll be a pretty basic skeleton crew so only the senior staff will be involved. And don’t worry, it’ll be a short trip so all of you instructors can make it back for the beginning of the new semester.”

They spend the rest of the meeting charting their path, learning the details of the ship they will be flying, and briefing the CMO on the nature of the scientists’ ailments. As the meeting breaks, Captain Pike approaches Spock. “We’ll be stopping in Vulcan for a few days before we set back home, so you’ll get a chance to visit your family.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Pike’s face breaks into a wide, mischievous grin. “I _also_ heard this funny rumor that you’ll be performing in the solstice concert.”

Spock tucks his hands behind his back and nods. “That is correct. I will be accompanying the Starfleet Academy Chorale Ensemble for several traditional Vulcan hymns.”

“Excellent!” Pike appears delighted by this information. “I’ve always wanted to hear you play that thing. I’ll definitely attend this year.” He winks.

Spock nods. “I hope you find the performance enjoyable.”

At the end of their next ka’athyra lesson Spock informs Cadet Uhura that he will be travelling over the recess. She sighs and says, “Well, I understand. I’ll be spending a week or so in Mombasa with my family, too. _But_ ,” she raises a finger and gives him a warning look, “You have to make _sure_ to give me plenty of homework. I don’t want to get rusty while you’re gone.”

“Certainly.”

Cadet Uhura’s comm chimes. Spock glances down at it to see the words _Jackson Hunt_ flashing on the screen. He looks away quickly. “I will take my leave then.” He turns to pack up his instrument.

“Is everything okay, Lieutenant Commander?” Cadet Uhura silences her comm without answering it.

“I would implore you to make a more specific inquiry.”

“I don’t know, you seem a bit… on edge lately.”

“I do not know what that means.” He looks up at her. “Please do not assume that my behavior is connected in any way to the same emotional tendencies that drive human behavior.”

“You _are_ half human,” she scowls.

“A fact which I am constantly reminded of.” He says, more sharply than he intended.

“What’s gotten into you?” Cadet Uhura begins packing up her instrument. Spock can tell before she speaks that she is angry. “Why can’t you just admit when something is bothering you? Do you find being compared to a human to be _that_ insulting?”

“Your constant references to my emotional state is offensive, Cadet.” Spock’s words are cold even in his own ears. “You of all people, with your extensive knowledge of Vulcan culture, should be aware of that. Therefore, I can only assume your intent is to insult me.”

Cadet Uhura’s expression is an odd mixture of wounded and irate. “I was just… trying to do what friends do—pay attention to each others’ emotions.”

“We are not friends, Cadet.” He knows this is harsh even as it escapes his lips.

To his surprise, Cadet Uhura does not argue back. She looks down and closes the clasps on her case, lifting it onto her shoulder. “I will keep that in mind, Lieutenant Commander. I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

Spock returns home and meditates for a long time. When he reassesses their conversation, he knows he has done nothing explicitly wrong, yet he feels sure that he owes Cadet Uhura some form of apology. The concert approaches, but he finds neither the opportunity, nor the right words to do so.

* * *

Spock spends most of the solstice concert in the wings, making sure that his ka’athyra is tuned to perfection, his starched Starfleet uniform is without crease or crinkle. He can hear the choir singing, their voices swelling in harmony beyond the curtains. He has not performed ka’athyra in front of an audience in many years, not since his school days on Vulcan, and never before one so large and diverse. He is confident in his abilities, but still, he has to engage in some light meditation to quell a feeling he identifies as anxiety.

As soon as he walks onto the stage, Spock’s focus is keen. The audience’s applause fades and Cadet Uhura steps off the risers in a long black dress that flutters at her ankles. Two shimmering earrings hang from her ears.

As Christie steps forward to introduce their next song, Cadet Uhura approaches him and bows. He bows to her and they both bow once to the audience. They have just moments before she must take her place at center stage, and Spock knows he must express something to mend the rift that has been slowly growing between them in the past week, if they are to perform harmoniously.

His mind is wrapped up in a stream of thoughts, various words and expressions in as many languages as he knows all saying the same thing: _you are beautiful_. He almost lets one of them slip.

“I am sorry.” He says quietly at last. “Perhaps in future, you will forgive me enough to once again consider me… your friend.”

Cadet Uhura’s eyebrows rise and her lips part. “Spock…” she begins. The sound is seared into his memory as the first time she ever speaks his name unburdened by his title. Before she can continue, Christie finishes her announcement and waves Cadet Uhura over to begin.

There is a moment of silence while the choir and audience wait for Spock to begin the opening bars of the first song. His gaze finds Cadet Uhura’s profile, but he is unable to start playing until she turns to look at him. When their eyes meet, the music takes hold of his fingers as if by instinct. The choir chimes in with background vocals, but Cadet Uhura continues to watch him until her cue. He knows he should look at the audience but his eyes refuse to leave her. When her voice rings out, clear and full above all the others, he is lost.


	7. She Definitely Does Not Think About Him Often

Nyota is sure Lieutenant Commander Spock’s eyes never left her for the duration of their songs together. She can almost feel the prickle of his gaze against her profile even as she faces the audience. She pictures his voice in her mind as she tries to keep her tone even and her pronunciation correct, but something about imagining his lips moving in the smooth syllables of Vuhlkansu makes this difficult.

When they bow to each other once more, at the end of the third and final song, their eyes meet and a thrilling sense of victory passes between their gazes. They had done it. The performance was near flawless, the applause enthusiastic. Nyota’s extremities are filled with jolts of adrenaline—the kind she can only experience on stage, out of breath from the last drawn out note.

She remembers his apology, his offer of friendship. It was unexpected. She agonized for days after their argument about her inexcusable behavior. She doesn’t know why he pushes her buttons and makes her lash out so unprofessionally. Her relationships with all her other instructors are formal and respectful. She is well-liked in every department she has worked with.

But Lieutenant Commander Spock undoes her in some way. There’s something about the way he becomes cold and distant without warning that feels dishonest—like he’s holding something back. Headstrong and candid, Nyota is frustrated by it constantly. She wonders if it is just his Vulcan nature. But of course, he is the first Vulcan she’s met who gives her this impression.

So maybe it’s the human part that makes her tick.

Just when she was plucking up the courage to apologize formally, he surprised her by apologizing first. It seems like he is always surprising her.

Despite all of his attempts to decline, the Lieutenant Commander is eventually pressured by all fifteen members of the choir to join them for a celebratory drink. He tries several avenues of escape (“I do not partake in the consumption of alcohol,” to which they said, “We’ll get you a virgin!”; “It would be inappropriate for me to spend leisure time with cadets,” to which they said, “But Lieutenant Commander, this is an official Starfleet Academy endorsed organization!”; “Still, I must decline,” to which they said, “It would be rude to decline when we insist!”), but is ultimately unsuccessful.

Nyota feels a little sorry for him as he is more or less escorted to the bar, flanked by rowdy cadets shaking off their performance high. Jackson appears at her elbow and they linger slightly behind the crowd.

“Have you thought about what I said the other day?” he asks, leaning closer.

She blushes and tucks her hands deeper into her pockets. “A little.”

Incidentally, with Sonia in the hospital, Nyota had been spending a lot more time alone with Jackson. Choir practice, meals, library—they saw each other constantly. And it’s not that she doesn’t like him. He’s got all the right qualifications: smart, into music, funny. He has hazel eyes and sandy hair that he constantly tries to comb back into its neat part with his fingers, even though loose strands always manage to flop in front of his eyes. And he’s tall, which is important because Nyota has long legs and loves a nice pair of high-heeled boots.

Yet somehow she never considered him as a potential _anything_ beyond one of her best friends until two days ago when he was walking her home after their last dinner of the semester. They stopped in front of the second-year cadet quarters and Jackson paused before walking on to the freshman quarters.

“Will you be on campus for the recess?” he asked her, moving slightly closer.

“Well, I’ll be going to Mombasa for a couple of weeks, but mostly, yeah. I’m doing an extra combat training course since my last physical exam came out a _little_ lower than I wanted. Too much library time…” she admitted with a squint.

“I’m doing a flight training course, so I’ll be around too,” he said brightly and took yet another step towards her. “So I’d like to hang out more.”

“Yeah, same! And when Sonia’s on campus to do make up exams we should all get together.” Sonia had been staying with her brother for her recovery, and while they saw each other once every week or so, she sorely missed having her best friend a comm call away.

“Yeah, of course. But I mean like… just the two of us sometimes, too.” At that point, his hand wandered to a loose strand of hair that had escaped over her shoulder and rested against her collarbone.

By the time she had put together what he was saying in her head, she realized he was already leaning in. For a moment she considered pulling away before his lips reached hers, but at the last second she realized she was a little curious, so she closed her eyes and let him kiss her.

It was a fine kiss. A slow peck, really. She immediately felt a twist of guilt when she saw how ecstatic and bright his face looked as he pulled away. She stepped back.

“I’ll… consider it. I just… I might be too busy, you know? And I don’t want things to be weird with Sonia…” his face fell, and she bit her lip to keep the stream of excuses from continuing.

“Is this because you have a crush on that Lieutenant Commander? Because you know—”

“Oh God, _no_.” Nyota shook her head and laughed. “Sonia is giving me _way_ too much shit about that. Sure, I admit I think he’s a _little_ cute but he’s absolutely the last person I would _ever_ want to be romantically—” she couldn’t stop the fit of giggles that escaped her in imagining Lieutenant Commander Spock in any context that could be deemed “romantic”. When he started laughing as well, she looked up. His cheeks dimpled in a really adorable way when he laughed. She had to admit, he wasn’t bad. And neither was the kiss, for that matter. “I mean it. I’ll consider it.”

He hasn’t mentioned it since that evening—no pestering or pressuring like most guys would have done. She appreciates this.

Nyota lets one of her elbows brush his. “What the hell. Let’s try it.”

She feels him tense, and looks up in time to see him nod, a very large grin splitting his face. “Trying is the first step to succeeding.”

Nyota laughs. “You get to be the one to tell Sonia, though.”

“No problem. She’s the one who told me to ask you out in the first place.”

“Seriously?” Nyota watches the back of Lieutenant Commander Spock’s head bobbing above everyone else’s—only one of the choir members was able to match him in height.

“Something like, ‘I swear to God if you don’t ask her out before I get back I’ll do it for you’.” They both laugh.

“Hey, lovebirds, keep up!” Angie turns and waves them along. Lieutenant Commander Spock turns too, just slightly, and she sees his eyes dart between them before he quickly faces forward. She feels her face heat up despite the late December chill.

“Come on.” She gives Jackson a playful shove and strides past him. “I need a drink!”

One of the boys in the choir orders Lieutenant Commander Spock a virgin margarita, for which the bartender openly teases him. He doesn’t touch it, but instead asks for a glass of water which he sips awkwardly at the end of the bar. A group of cadets soon gather around him. Nyota watches him with a mixture of pity and amusement as the choir members interrogate him about his instrument—how long he’s been playing, how did he learn, questions that become louder and more ridiculous as the cadets work their way through their drinks. She admires the way he answers each question calmly and drinks his water, unfazed by the situation. She can see the other choir members warming up to him, occasionally laughing at something he says, though she’s too far away to hear their conversation over the din of the bar.

Eventually, they get distracted by their own conversations and begin drifting away from him, arguing about what to order on their next round. She sees him stand up and gather his jacket. It seems he has identified this as a good time to slip away.

Nyota leaves Jackson’s side to join him. She leans one elbow on the bar next to him and says, “Look at you, mingling with the cadets.”

He slips on his jacket and tilts his head. “These cadets have remarkable musical knowledge. Our conversations have been stimulating. However, I believe I should take my leave before they become further intoxicated and the situation becomes inappropriate.”

“Good idea,” she says, glancing at the cadet leaning over the bar to order a round of shots. She looks at him seriously for a moment. “ _Honored Teacher, I find it necessary to convey apologies for my past behavior. You were correct that I was acting insubordinately,”_ she says in Vulcan.

“ _You were correct,”_ he repeats, adjusting her pronunciation. She says the phrase back to him and he nods. _“Do not be affected. I was acting unkindly. Your concerns for my well-being are noted and appreciated. I hope that we may further our acquaintance more pleasantly.”_

She smiles, and says, _“Statistically unlikely, Teacher. I am certain we will continue to have many disagreements.”_

He smiles as well. _“I do not find our disagreements exclusively unpleasant.”_

“What are you two going on about?”

The change in Lieutenant Commander Spock’s face is immediate when Jackson walks over and stands at Nyota’s side. Any softness in his features is swallowed by his usual blank stare.

“Not much,” Nyota says, touching Jackson’s arm. “I’m mostly apologizing for being an insubordinate troublemaker.”

He laughs and turns to Spock. “Let me apologize twice for you, then. She really gives you a hard time, Lieutenant Commander.”

Lieutenant Commander Spock does not respond, and instead zips up his coat.

Jackson extends a hand. “But seriously. Thank you so much for accompanying us. Doing Vulcan songs this year was kind of my idea, so I feel partly responsible. Sorry we took so much of your time.”

Lieutenant Commander Spock looks at his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, takes it. “It was no trouble, Cadet Hunt. I found the activity enjoyable. Have a good night.”

He nods at Nyota. “Cadet Uhura.”

She gives him a small smile and says, “Good night Lieutenant Commander.”

She watches his back disappear into the crowd and out the door.

“He’s got quite the grip,” Jackson laughs, shaking out his hand.

Nyota elbows him. “Vulcans are like three times as strong as humans. And they _hate_ shaking hands.”

“Oops.”

They laugh again, and Nyota can already feel the alcohol warming her stomach and chest. She leans into him and presses her nose against his shoulder. She wants to try it again—the kissing thing, with him. And maybe more, depending on how it goes. But not here.

“Let’s go,” she whispers into his neck and he is only too happy to comply. They bid the rest of the choir farewell (met with a lot of groaning and pleas for them to stay) and step out into the night hand in hand.

He kisses her as soon as they are outside, holding her face in both hands, his thumbs tracing the line of her jaw. She likes kissing him, she decides.

They continue back towards campus, walking at a leisurely pace, Jackson’s arm slung affectionately over her shoulder. She almost doesn’t notice Lieutenant Commander Spock sitting alone on a bench on the quad. He is staring straight ahead, apparently in deep concentration, his hands resting on either knee. Part of her wants to stop and ask him what’s wrong, why his expression is so blank and fixed. She can never be sure what’s going through his head. Yet as soon as their eyes meet, she feels humiliation creep into her chest at being caught by him, of all people, stealing away across campus wrapped up in some guy’s arms.

He doesn’t greet her and she doesn’t greet him, but that image of him remains in her mind for weeks afterwards.

* * *

It’s a blessing in disguise, Nyota tells herself, that Lieutenant Commander Spock is off-world for the recess. Without ka’athyra lessons or choir practice, Nyota has plenty of time to work on her third-year thesis proposal, help Sonia move back into her dorm, and spend time with Jackson, who turns out to be the world’s nicest boyfriend.

For example, he has yet to get mad when being asked to hang out, only to be dragged to the library for silent studying; he hasn’t yet proposed a date idea that sounds boring to her—like Nyota, he prefers concerts and museums to fancy dinners and holofilms; he gives great massages when she’s sore from combat training; he’s never whiny or mopey about sex when she’s not in the mood; he is quite adept in bed when she is. She has to give credit to everyone who recommends being friends before dating—she hasn’t had this much fun in a relationship in a long time.

She’s been so busy and having so much fun that she hardly thinks about Lieutenant Commander Spock, and only _occasionally_ wonders where in the galaxy he might be, or why his Academy comm number is registered as “temporarily out of service” when she tries to call him one evening to ask about a particular fingering in a song he assigned her. This kind of thing is not unheard of—officers often fall out of contact when whisked away on stealth missions. She had one instructor disappear without a trace halfway through the semester, giving no warning or indication of his departure. They went three days without class before an appropriate replacement was instated. So it’s really none of her concern where he may be, and there’s absolutely no use in worrying if he might come back.

Truly, the only time she _really_ thinks about him is when she’s practicing her Vuhlkansu, which she has been drilling through instructional audio exercises whenever she can spare the time. So if she’s picturing his mouth or imagining the way his voice sounds, it’s only so that she can speak Vulcan as dispassionately as possible. She definitely does not wonder how his voice might sound if he pronounced the words like her— _intimately_ , according to the popular euphemism.

Well, maybe the thought has crossed her mind, but only in a couple of random, completely meaningless dreams in which they’re sitting on that bench in the quad at night. He’s repeating phrases back to her as he always does, only this time in a deep murmur, leaning closer as he says things like _Where are you going, Take me with you, I want to know what this is, What application does this have_ , and she can’t help but stare at his lips and teeth until she wakes up with the blankets kicked off her bed and her earpieces are still in, the same words playing in a cold, female Vulcan’s voice.

And of course, t’s understandable for her to think about him when she worries about her _Advanced Phonology_ grade. He spent most of that class deliberately avoiding her gaze, pointedly skimming over her raised hand. Even after their ka’athyra lessons began, this did not change. She slowly became resigned to it. She devoured his supplemental readings, interrogated him about them as they unpacked and then repacked their instruments before and after lessons. She discovered that he was less evasive outside of class. It seems to be part of their relationship, for him to be more receptive to her comments and inquiries when they aren’t being watched by others.

Despite the high marks she received on her exams, she still has room to wonder, in a way she’s never had to before, what exactly her grade would look like. When the assessment is transmitted she can’t open it fast enough. She isn’t prepared for its content, either. Close to full marks, with the comment:

_Cadet Uhura has exceptional aural sensitivity and has demonstrated, on multiple occasions, an unparalleled ability to identify sonic anomalies in subspace transmissions tests. She will make an exemplary communications officer aboard any Federation starship._

She rereads it multiple times. She wants very much to call him. She has no idea how she would express her gratitude but she is overflowing with it. It happens all of a sudden—a dam breaks, letting out a rush of things she wants to ask him, things she wants to tell him. It’s the only time she has an imagined conversation with him. Well, one of only a few times.

She definitely does not think about him often, and certainly does not miss him at all.

So when she reads the news story on the Academy bulletin—an incident with Orion pirates, vessel destroyed, senior staff of the _Enterprise_ homeward bound after a successful stealth mission, three Starfleet Academy instructors severely injured, one confirmed dead—she is not prepared for the way her stomach drops for what feels like kilometers. She pictures the last time she saw Spock, sitting alone on that bench with his dark eyes following her down the path, and her blood runs cold in her veins.


	8. It Makes Perfect Sense That He Should Be The One Who Remains Solitary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very inexperienced in writing anything action-y, hence why it took me so long to get this chapter out. Enjoy!

Spock is momentarily disoriented when he wakes. The air is thick and hot, resting comfortably on his skin. He opens his eyes to a warm light: his childhood bedroom, draped in reds and gold. He can hear the ambient sounds of Shi’Kahr outside his window. It is almost afternoon already. Spock is not one to oversleep, but his internal clock is still synchronized with ship time, which follows Earth standard.

He dresses and wanders into the communal rooms to find his mother seated on one of the couches with a cup of tea and a handheld reader.

“Good morning, Mother.”

“It’s hardly morning, Spock.” Amanda smiles and sets the reader on the table next to the couch and pats the seat by her side. “You really passed right out as soon as you arrived.”

“I apologize for not rising to prepare your morning meal.” Spock sits down beside her.

“Oh, please, you know I don’t care about that. I’d rather you sleep in when you’re home. I’m sure you’re not getting enough rest at the Academy.” She waves away his apology with one hand and offers him her tea. A human quirk—sharing beverages. Once, when he was a child, Spock offered a spoonful of his lunch to someone who was asking after it (an Earth preparation which drew intrigue from others in his class). The boy recoiled from the offer with a snide remark about unsanitary human habits. On Vulcan, something that so plainly spread germs is frowned upon; on Earth, Spock is not able to shake off this cultural taboo when offered a “bite” or “sip”. His mother, of course, is an exception to all of this. Spock accepts the tea, letting his fingers brush hers affectionately.

He takes a sip. The temperature is perfectly to his liking. He allows a smile to creep onto his lips as he stares down into the dark liquid.

Amanda places a hand on his knee. “How was your journey? Anything interesting?”

“Our journey was quite routine. There was just one encounter with an Orion pirate ship. We were able to quickly disable their impulse engines and outmaneuver them.” Spock hopes this might suffice as “interesting” in his mother’s eyes. It does.

“Your new crew must be quite efficient.” She quirks an eyebrow in a gesture Spock finds reminiscent of his father. “How are you liking them?”

“They are exceptional officers. They perform their duties with proficiency, as expected from a crew selected by Captain Pike.”

Amanda laughs. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Captain Pike has ordered me to play at least one game of chess with him in my leisure time, and to join the crew for meals. They are quite intelligent, and I find conversing with them sufficiently stimulating.”

“Sounds like you’re having fun.”

“I am,” Spock says, not because he would necessarily describe his time with the _Enterprise_ crew as “fun”, but because he knows this sentiment will please his mother. He is rewarded by a delighted expression.

“How’s Nyota?” she takes the teacup back from Spock and sips it, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

“She was well when I last saw her, but I have not been in contact with her since I left on this assignment.” Spock accepts the teacup back from Amanda and looks away.

“You didn’t call her when you docked?”

“It would have been unnecessary.”

Amanda squints at him, scrutinizing his body language. “You don’t think she’d like to hear from you, after you’ve been out of communication for over a week?”

“Unlikely. I left her with ample ka’athyra assignments to occupy her for the recess. I presume she is enjoying her leisure time in my absence.”

“Mm, I thought she was starting to like you, though.” Amanda’s voice has a teasing lilt. Spock does not appreciate it.

“I am sure she prefers the company of her peers over her alien superior officer and instructor.”

Amanda squeezes his arm gently. “You know I hate it when you use that term on yourself.”

“I apologize, Mother.”

A silence passes, before Amanda sighs. “Oh, Spock.”

“Yes?”

“She’s dating a human, isn’t she?”

“That is irrelevant.” Spock tries to prevent his mouth from tensing. “But correct.”

“Pretty girls don’t wait around.”

“This is the most logical course of action—for her to pursue personal relationships within her own rank, and for me to honor my commitments.” Spock concludes, saying aloud what he has been repeating in his mind since the conclusion of his semester.

Amanda wrinkles her nose. “When is she coming?”

“When the sun peaks.”

“I don’t like her, you know.”

“I am aware.”

She reaches over suddenly, cupping the back of Spock’s neck, letting her fingers slide easily into his hair. “Spock, there’s something…” she hesitates.

“Yes?”

“Never mind. I’m sure she’ll tell you herself, if there’s any truth to it.”

Spock tilts his head, confused by this sudden burst of affection. His mother retracts her hand and looks down. Spock hands her the cup and stands. “Thank you for the tea, Mother.”

“Let me know if you want me to make you a fresh cup,” she says softly, her gaze downcast.

“Thank you.”

When T’Pring arrives, they busy themselves in preparing tea together. It is a familiar activity, one they did often on evenings when their parents were occupied in conversation. Her hair has grown longer since he last visited her, tied tight at the top of her head. He watches the sunlight travel over her slim frame. Two carefully curled strands escape on either side of her neatly pointed ears. The afternoon rays reflect off the shimmering paint smeared above her eyelids. He walks behind her and presses his lips against her spine, sliding his arms down hers until their hands connect. She pulls away suddenly and turns. Their eyes meet.

“ _I do not wish to engage in sexual intercourse or mind meld on this occasion_ ,” she says simply.

“ _I apologize._ ” Spock retracts his arms and takes a step back. He watches her finish making the tea, puzzled. It was usually T’Pring who expressed interest in having intimate relations. Spock never felt any special inclination towards it, but also did not find the activity unpleasant.

Unlike all the other Vulcan males his age, Spock did not experience Pon Farr at the appropriate time. Or, ever. When they were fifteen, T’Pring insisted that they unite both sexually and mentally, because all of her acquaintances had already done so with their betrothed and she did not want to be deprived of the experience. T’Pring took the lead in all of their interactions, determined which positions she found most adequate, and gave him detailed instructions on pleasing her. Spock did not mind this; he was intrigued when she had first made the proposal, and found that with each session he gained more knowledge about T’Pring’s physical and mental anatomy, which was valuable information if she was to be his wife.

He thought it might be appropriate, perhaps welcome, for him to initiate intimacy after such a prolonged absence. Instead, he finds her mind closed to him. He recalls his mother’s odd behavior earlier that day.

“ _Speak plainly, T’Pring. What displeases you?_ ” Spock stands back against the wall, crossing his arms.

T’Pring turns, holding a cup in each hand. “ _Let us sit, and I will inform you._ ”

Across the table from him, she looks distant. She keeps her hands carefully wrapped around her mug as she says, quietly, “ _I wish to annul our bond._ ”

Spock blinks. He is not often surprised. “ _State your reasons for this desire._ ”

“ _You are often absent, and I suspect that your enlistment in Starfleet will only lessen your time on Vulcan. I have observed your mother endure the Ambassador’s frequent absences. Her emotional attachment to him allows her to tolerate it, but I am not hindered by_ ‘love’ _and other such human notions. I prefer a partner who would be by my side._ ” The word “love”, spoken in Earth Standard, stands out from her smooth Vulcan speech in a tone which is very near condescending.

“ _You find me inadequate_.” Spock sips his tea. The temperature is slightly hotter than he prefers. He sets the cup down.

“ _Spock,_ ” T’Pring’s gaze is, and has always been, unwavering. She wastes no words, employs no euphemisms when she says, “ _You fulfill my needs only superficially. Lately, our bond has been exceptionally weak. I often consider the possibility that we were never meant for one another. Forcing such a bond is illogical_.”

Spock studies her, waits for her words to illicit an emotion which he would have to suppress. No such moment occurs. “ _Very well. Your honesty is appreciated._ ”

It happens very quickly. The next morning, at dawn, they arrange a meeting with one of the elders. Though both Amanda and T’Pring’s parents offer to accompany them, they go alone. There is a short ceremony, a few ancient words exchanged. The speed and ease with which their minds are separated only highlight the truth in T’Pring’s words: their bond had always been superficial, at best. No effort on either of their parts could have altered something so fundamental.

They part ways at the city center. Walking down his street, Spock feels strangely alone. The sun has climbed nearly to its height, and the sky over Shi’Kahr glows pale orange. He has almost reached his house when a familiar-looking Vulcan man emerges from the gates of one of the neighboring homes. He does a double-take on Spock’s approaching figure.

“ _Spock, Son of Sarek_ ,” he says, tilting his head in greeting. “ _How unexpected._ ”

“ _Torik, Son of Tavek._ ” Spock pauses. Upon seeing him more closely, he recognizes the tall Vulcan as one of his childhood tormentors—one who stands out in his memory because of the proximity of their homes. “ _You and your family are in good health?_ ”

“ _We are. I am expecting a child in the next drought season._ ” The statement borders on pride, and carries with it a challenge. “ _You and T’Pring are well?_ ”

“ _I am well and T’Pring is also well_.” Spock’s phrasing gives Torik the information he is undoubtedly seeking. “ _I offer congratulations to you and T’Les._ ”

“ _I offer condolences and congratulations for your separation with T’Pring. Stonn has told me you accepted her decision without emotional impediment. You have come a long way._ ” The man clasps his hands behind his back and delivers the last phrase like a parent would his child. Spock has no time to be offended—he is still working out the meaning of his words.

“ _Stonn?”_ he asks at last.

“ _Perhaps she never informed you of his name. He is the one T’Pring desires, the one who will surely become her betrothed now that she is no longer tied to you._ ” Spock can tell that even as he speaks, Torik is realizing that Spock has never heard of any such man. He cannot wholly hide the amusement that flickers in his eyes, tugs at the corner of his lips just slightly.

 _“Surely_.” Spock says after a long pause.

“ _I must be going,_ ” Torik nods, walking past Spock. A few steps later Spock hears him stop and say, “ _Consider this an opportunity, Spock. You are clearly more suited for a human partner. There may be_ ‘love’ _in your future._ _Live long and prosper_.” Again, the word “love”, all but sneered in Earth Standard—a mockery of him and, more keenly felt, his mother.

“ _Peace and long life_ ,” he manages to say before Torik continues onward. Spock is freshly reminded of the small humiliations he endured each day amongst his own people. He walks home slowly, taking each step to smooth out the ripples of emotion that disturb his insides.

Of course, this was inevitable, logical. T’Pring with a full Vulcan who can kindle a strong, fulfilling bond; Nyota with a charming human cadet who makes her laugh. It makes perfect sense that he should be the one who remains solitary, suspended in the empty space between their two worlds.

* * *

Spock boards their ship resolved to purge his mind of both Nyota and T’Pring. He has determined that this is for the best; his interpersonal concerns have only detracted from his ability to put full focus on his career and duties at Starfleet.

“How’s the family?” Pike comes up behind Spock’s station once they’ve left orbit.

“My father is travelling. My mother is doing well.” Spock turns his chair to face his captain, folding his hands on his lap. This particular mission had very little occupation for him, since there was no need or opportunity for scientific analysis. On their journey to Vulcan, Spock mainly acted as an assistant for the Chief Medical Officer. The return voyage is proving to be leisurely. This ease prompts him to ask Captain Pike, “Was your stay on Vulcan enjoyable?”

“We had a chance to do a little tourism—got to visit a temple, sample the local culture. Not often we get to wander the planet off-duty, you know?” Pike grins. He leans on the edge of the control panel, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you have a Vulcan fiancé you got to visit?  Serenade her with that lovely instrument of yours?”

“I did.” Spock nods. “We annulled our betrothal on my visit.”

Pike stares down at him with his eyebrows raised. Lieutenant Perkins looks up from his place on the communications console, holding his earpiece suspended by his jaw. “You broke off your engagement?”

Suddenly everyone on the bridge is staring at him with expressions of disbelief and profound interest. He realizes that this may be the first piece of personal information he has ever shared with his crewmates. He finds drawing such an emotional response from his peers to be unwelcome. He turns back to his console.

“Well,” Pike gives his shoulder a squeeze before wandering away to another station. “We’ll drink to it over dinner tonight, and you can tell us all about it.” Spock has no intention of divulging the details of his intimate relationships, but before he can respond Pike points an accusing finger at him. “And I’ll get you to play that instrument for us at some point on our five-year mission.” He smirks. “I’m not going to forget that outstanding performance anytime soon.”

Spock decides that this is not the right moment to remind Captain Pike that he does not partake in the consumption of alcoholic beverages. Instead, he tilts his head and says, “I am sure we will have ample opportunity in the future, Captain.”

The bridge shudders suddenly from an unexpected impact. The crew is immediately alert, and Pike returns to the captain’s chair in a few quick strides. “Shields up—what was that?”

“Approaching vessel, Sir.” The helmsman says from the front of the bridge. “They opened fire.”

“Hail them, Lieutenant Perkins.”

The bridge of the approaching Orion vessel materializes on screen. The captain is barking at them in Orion. “Translator—” Perkins has the universal translator on before Pike can finish the word.

“—and we will seize your cargo and capture your men—”

“We have no cargo!” Pike spreads his arms. “It’s empty.”

“Sir, it is the same unregistered vessel we damaged on our journey to Vulcan,” Spock observes. “It is very likely that they are motivated by a desire to retaliate.”

Pike rubs his temple. “Damn it, terminate communication.” The irate Orion blinks away to reveal his fast approaching vessel. “We are not equipped for open combat. We have to outmaneuver them again.”

“It was a good shot, Sir. I can’t get us into warp with the damage,” the helmsman reports.

 “Perkins, get me engineering.”

“Aye.”

“—Captain, we are working as quickly as we can with only two of us. They’ll go for our shields next—they’ll want to board.” The chief engineer’s voice sounds labored, as if she’s been taking laps around the warp core.

“Lieutenant Perkins, send out a distress signal. There’s got to be a Federation vessel somewhere in the vicinity. Lieutenant Commander Spock, go with Commander Roy to engineering—they’ll need all the help they can get.” A second impact rattles them. Spock notes that it has weakened the shield very near its energy source. He heads below deck with Commander Roy, Pike’s first officer.

The chief engineer is already dripping in sweat when they arrive. She and the other officer are running around the small engine room tossing each other tools and yelling out status updates.

“Commander, good timing.” The harried chief engineer approaches them. “I need to do some external repairs, or we’re looking at a warp core breach. This little ship’s repair system is really basic.”

Commander Roy looks bewildered. “This is a _disaster_.”

“I know, _I know_.” The chief engineer throws her hands in the air. “But that was a damn lucky shot. We’re not prepared for this level of engagement.”

When they update Captain Pike he lets out a colorful stream of swears. “Good news is,” he says with a sigh, “Perkins got a hold of a passing Andorian science vessel. It’s not built for combat, though. We’re going to jump ship and warp out of here as soon as they get within transporter range.”

“Abandon ship, Captain?” Commander Roy raises his eyebrows and he and Spock exchange a look.

“Roy, the senior crew of the Federation flagship is far more precious than this hunk of metal. Keep us together until we can rendezvous. We’ll have to drop shields when the time comes, so be ready to move fast. Pike out.”

Spock has been mentally calculating the risks of as many possible scenarios as he can conceive. “Lieutenant Commander,” he says to the chief engineer. “May I volunteer to make the external repairs? Your expertise will be better utilized in the engine room. I possess adequate knowledge and superior physical ability to carry out this task.”

The chief engineer squints at him, unsure of whether she should be offended. With no time to spare she says, “Fine. There’s a set of suits under the control panel. I’ll brief you momentarily. Commander, if you could assist the Lieutenant.”

The chief engineer hands Spock a set of tools with detailed instructions on the repairs. At the last minute, Commander Roy grabs an EV suit and begins zipping himself in.

“Commander?”

“I don’t feel good about letting you go out there alone. I’m more in the Lieutenant’s way than anything else in here. Let’s go.”

They walk out onto the ship, submerged in the empty darkness. It is a rare opportunity, to face the open universe without walls. As ship repair systems become more sophisticated, there are fewer reasons to actually be out in space. For a split second, Spock allows himself to gaze out into the expanse—the embodiment of infinite possibilities in infinite combinations—he finds it beautiful. He does not have time to linger on this, though. He and Commander Roy begin the repairs methodically and efficiently. They realize very quickly that they will be unable to reattach certain frayed parts. Soon, an Andorian ship drops out of warp, gray and massive next to the two smaller transport vessels.

“Alright, crew,” Pike’s voice echoes in Spock’s helmet. “I’ve got our allies on standby to transport. Now as soon as we drop shields, the Orions _will_ fire. There’s nothing anyone can do about it as long as their shields are up as well. Brace yourselves.”

“Commander Roy, may I suggest—” Spock begins, but Roy nods before he can finish.

“I know, Spock. We suggest you beam us last, Captain,” Roy replies. “We need to stay out here to hold the ship together—literally.”

“Alright, Commander, Lieutenant Commander. Have your wits about you.”

“Hold on, Spock!” Roy says as they grab the safety holds around the repair station. The first impact shakes the ship violently, and Spock’s head rattles inside his helmet. “Damn it, this is more than luck. They’ve got an excellent marksman on board.”

“Commander Roy,” Spock says seriously. “I insist that you beam out before me.”

“Nonsense, Spock. You’re my responsibility.”

“And you are the First Officer. You are far more valuable to our crew than I am.”

“Spock—” the ship shakes again and they press themselves against it. Roy laughs. “You do realize that you are the only one of your kind. There is _nobody_ out there like you.”

“That is not—”

“Plus, you’re brilliant. You’ll outrank me in no time.”

Spock does not have a chance to respond because the chief engineer’s voice echoes in their helmets, “Commander! Spock! We’re about to beam out. Once we leave, there is a chance that the ship will collapse. Look, I told them to beam you first—”

“—no can do, Lieutenant Commander.” Roy shakes his head. “The hardware out here won’t stay together unless we hold it.”

There’s a silence before the engineer says, “Okay. Okay, we will keep a lock on you. You’ll have a very small delay window.”

“Got it! Good luck.”

The ship shakes from another impact. “Shit,” Roy hisses through his teeth. “Spock, listen to me. You have to push off with all of the thrust you can. Get away from the ship.”

“That is not—”

“Don’t worry, they’ll beam me out with time to spare. But I want to make sure you’re safe first.”

“Commander, allow me to stay behind—”

“Lieutenant Commander, _that is an order_.”

Spock and Roy stare at each other for a beat, their dark eyes in a stand-off. “Yes Sir.” Spock says finally. Hesitantly, he lets go of the valve he had clamped down with one hand, Roy’s free hand taking its place. He pushes off.

For a moment, he is suspended, drifting peacefully away from the ship. He almost wishes he could remain there, diminished in infinity. Then suddenly, a harsh wind sweeps him up, sending him twisting wildly away from the ship. He can see it in flashes, coming in and out of his vision—the little vessel flickering with bright radiation in the distance. “Captain! Commander!” No answer.

He’s flying further from the Andorian vessel, his brain ricocheting inside of his skull. He tries to hold his arms and legs tight to his body and to suppress the nausea spreading through his gut. If he hasn’t been beamed aboard yet, then Commander Roy is most certainly caught in the midst of it. At this speed, tossed erratically by the blast, the chances of anyone getting a lock on his coordinates is very low. He can tell that the damage to his EV suit is considerable, that he may only have moments before something vital fails. If not, the radiation will work quickly through his system. His thoughts begin to unravel into ribbons of fear and panic and grief. He slows his breathing and collects himself, smoothing all of his emotions into a flat sheet of acceptance.

He watches the stars spin through his cracked helmet. Truly, it is beautiful. He sees his mother, holding a teacup in a sunlit room, feels his father’s large hand on his shoulder, and is certain, even in the silence of space, that he hears a clear, sweet voice singing about a boy with two pointed ears.


	9. You Two Can’t Keep Your Eyes Off Each Other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick turnover this time :) I didn't initially plan for Amanda to be such a strong presence, but I can't help it—I like her and she totally ships it. :p

Nyota tries Spock’s comm number for what feels like the hundredth time that morning. Still out of service. She was drinking her morning coffee and reading the bulletin as usual when she came across the article about the _Enterprise_ crew’s unexpected hostile encounter with Orion pirates. She knows that Lieutenant Commander Spock is their Chief Science Officer—Nyota knows who every senior member of the _Enterprise_ is, having followed its construction and assignments avidly since she came to the Academy. She knew within the first month of enlisting that she wanted serve aboard it.

_Three wounded, one dead._

The words plague her thoughts throughout the day. Everyone is gathered around Christie’s PADD when she enters the choir room for their first rehearsal of the semester. She turns to Nyota with a cheerful grin. “Good news!”

Nyota’s stomach twists and she is unable to return the smile. She feels incapable of associating the word “good” with “news”.

“The board of the Academy was so impressed with our performance at the solstice concert, they recommended us for the annual the First Contact Celebration. We’re going to have a second performance of the Vulcan songs at the New York City celebration. Nice work, Nyota.”

Her fellow choir members are upon her with cheers and embraces and she manages a wan smile in return.

“Do you think you can ask Lieutenant Commander Spock if he’ll accompany us again? When he’s back from break, that is.” Angie asks hopefully.

Nyota swallows. “I’ll… see what I can do.” The words come out thin.

Her gaze meets with Jackson’s and she can tell from the concern in his eyes that he read the bulletin too. Before they can exchange any words, Christie calls them to attention to welcome Sonia back from sick leave.

They begin practice with a series of vocal exercises to warm up. Nyota can hear her voice faltering, missing notes. Her tongue feels thick. It happens all of a sudden—her throat closes, her lungs feel like they are shrinking. A note turns into a gasp, and then another gasp, and suddenly everyone has stopped singing to stare at her. Sonia grabs both of her arms before she can sink to her knees.

“Nyota. _Nyota_ , what’s happening?” she says, her voice becoming more alarmed with each syllable. Nyota feels the anxiety in the room as everyone is taken back to when Sonia collapsed. It only makes her breathing become more labored.

Murmurs ripple through the choir, and Nyota’s heart races. She gulps for air. The next few moments are a blur. Jackson’s arms are around her and he’s pulling her into the hallway. She sits with her back against the wall outside, Jackson kneeling before her, holding her shoulders. “Nyota, look at me.” He cups her face with both his hands and she forces her darting eyes to focus on his face. “You’re having a panic attack. You need to slow down your breathing. Come on. In and out.” Jackson whistles out slow, exaggerated breaths and she tries to match them. Eventually, her heart slows and her gasping begins to subside. He presses a kiss onto her forehead and she closes her eyes, leaning into it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers when she feels calm enough speak. “I’m not sure what happened.”

Jackson meets her eyes again, his expression grave. “Damn it. I should have known this wouldn’t work.”

“What?”

He laughs. “I thought that maybe if you didn’t notice, if I distracted you enough, you’d fall for my charms and forget all about him.”

“What are you talking about, Jackson?” Nyota sits a little bit straighter.

“You’re obviously upset about the _Enterprise_ accident. Denying it is only going to put stress on you.” Jackson releases her face and sits back on his heels.

Nyota sighs and buries her face in her hands. “I mean, it’s reasonable, right? I know we don’t always get along that well, and he’s far from my favorite instructor, but we spent a lot of time with each other, you know? I’m worried about him.”

“Come on, Nyota. Are you serious?” Jackson runs his hand through his hair. “You’re in love with him.”

“ _I’m not_.” Nyota says sharply, mortified by the suggestion. This is the wrong moment for him to suddenly show a jealous streak. “I hardly even _like_ him. We barely get along!”

“That’s a lie and you know it. From _day one_ you’ve been chasing him around, begging him to notice you.”

Nyota feels her face heat up. “That’s not… true. Plus, we’re always arguing!”

Jackson laughs and shakes his head. “You know what everyone else sees? That you two can’t keep your eyes off each other. When you start having a conversation—argument or not—it’s like nobody else is in the room. And he lets you say things no other superior officer would tolerate from a cadet. I mean, I don’t know what his feelings are—if Vulcans even have feelings like that—but he definitely likes you more than any other cadet.”

Nyota hugs her arms, looking down. “He definitely doesn’t have feelings like _that_ for me.” She feels humiliated by her outburst during practice, by the entire premise of this conversation. She does not want to go back into the choir room and explain herself, nor does she want to qualify her relationship with Lieutenant Commander Spock to her boyfriend, of all people.

“Do you know why Sonia was so insistent on me asking you out?” He reaches over and touches a stray strand from her ponytail. “She said something along the lines of ‘If you want to stand a chance, you have to ask her out before she realizes how much she likes Lieutenant Commander Spock.’”

A silence passes. Nyota doesn’t have enough energy to continue fighting him, and part of her is still stuck on the thought that this whole moment might be meaningless if Lieutenant Commander Spock is already dead. At last she says, her voice shaky, “Are you breaking up with me right now?”

He sighs. “I guess I might be. Maybe we can talk about it more later, maybe we can give it another shot when you’ve figured things out. But that’s not really important right now. Go home and rest. I’ll see if I can get some more information about the _Enterprise_ crew after practice.”

After promising Jackson that she will return to her dorm and declining his offer to accompany her, Nyota walks through campus in the opposite direction. She stands outside the science building’s locked doors for a long time. She forgot that it’s closed, except to authorized personnel, during the recess. She wanders towards the officers’ quarters when she realizes that she doesn’t know if he lives in building A, B, or C. She’s pacing the officers’ residential quad when a voice cuts through the afternoon.

“Nyota?”

She spins around to find Amanda exiting building B with a bag. She is wearing a long, pale blue dress with a sheer, off-white scarf fluttering around her head in the wind. To Nyota, she looks absolutely angelic. Her heart races and it takes her every effort not to bolt down the path towards her. When they finally reach each other, she doesn’t have to ask—she suspects that the question is all over her face already.

“He’s okay,” Amanda says immediately. “His body is healing right now. He got a pretty heavy dose of radiation.”

Nyota can’t say anything for a moment. Her thoughts are blurry, still reeling from her panic attack. Suddenly her arms are around this petite woman and she’s panting with relief. “Thank you,” she whispers into Amanda’s scarf.

Amanda’s slim arms wrap around her with the practiced movements of a mother. She cups the back of Nyota’s head and says, “I’m sorry that he worried you so much.”

Nyota remembers herself and pulls away. She exhales and her entire body relaxes, like someone just cut a tight cord that had wrapped up her insides all day. “God, I’m sorry. I just didn’t know if… if…” she falls silent.

Amanda smiles sympathetically. “I know. Every time I hear reports like this my heart stops. Come on.” She places her hand on Nyota’s shoulder. “I’m heading to the medical center right now. He should be waking up soon.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—” Nyota stammers, blushing.

“I insist. My husband won’t be able to reach until tomorrow. I’d welcome the company.”

Nyota reluctantly follows Amanda across campus to meet a Starfleet private transport vehicle at the east entrance. As she climbs inside, Nyota wonders what kind of family Spock is from. Surely someone important, if Starfleet is providing his mother with transportation. She realizes that she knows very little about it—Spock never speaks about his personal life. As far as she can tell, he doesn’t really have many friends, and is a long way from home. She wonders if he ever feels lonely. Vulcans may not be susceptible to such an emotion, but she’s never sure where Spock’s Vulcan ends and human begins.

When they enter Spock’s room, a doctor is standing with one knee on the bed, slapping Spock across the face repeatedly. Nyota takes a step forward, mouth slightly agape, when Amanda takes a firm hold of her forearm.

“This is the Vulcan way, Nyota.” She smiles. “It shocked me the first time, too. But it means we’ve had perfect timing. He’s just waking up. Why don’t you wait outside for a moment?” Amanda gently pushes Nyota away from the spectacle and into the hallway, where a group of medical cadets are gathered, attempting to get a peek at what’s happening inside. The firm slaps can be heard through the door. Nyota spots Cadet McCoy joining the crowd—she recognizes him from a premature attempt at the _Kobayashi_ simulation that Kirk had bullied them both into last summer. She comes up beside him and nudges him with her elbow.

“What the hell are they doing in there?” she asks, crossing her arms.

“Apparently they’ve got a Vulcan in there.” Even McCoy looks a bit excited. “They have this really fascinating recovery process. Basically, they put themselves into a coma to heal. Then you have to smack them out of it.” He laughs. “Ridiculous creatures. Even their biology is stubborn.”

“Hmm.” Nyota tilts her head, staring at the closed door.

“What are you doing here, Uhura? You’re looking a little pale.” McCoy squints and presses a hand on her forehead, testing the temperature. “You pass out from exhaustion again? What’d we tell you about those all-nighters? You’re on break, for God’s sake! Now if you—”

Nyota raises both of her hands and says, “I’m visiting someone!”

“Everything alright? There was talk about that friend of yours with the Andorian infection…”

Nyota sighs. “Yeah, it’s fine. Just uh… combat injury, you know?”

“Combat?” McCoy crosses his arms. “One of the _Enterprise_ crew? How’d you get on visiting basis with one of those guys?”

“Um, one of them was my instructor last semester.” She looks down, feeling suddenly awkward explaining her relationship with Lieutenant Commander Spock. Her description feels dishonest somehow, not quite accurate.

McCoy whistles. “Lucky you. Bet you’re at the top of their assignment list.”

 Nyota raises her eyebrows. “What makes you say that? We’ve never had a class together.”

“Because Jim picked you for the _Kobayashi_. Boy’s got a good eye for talent.”

Nyota rolls her eyes. “Or he thinks it’ll get him a date.”

McCoy laughs. “Maybe a bit of both.”

The door slides open and Amanda waves at Nyota to come in. McCoy looks at Amanda and then at Nyota, his eyebrows shooting up. “Uhura, is _that_ —”

“I’ll see you later, McCoy,” she says quickly, slipping between the other envious cadets to join Amanda inside.

Spock is lying awake when she walks in, looking disoriented. When his eyes fall on her, his face betrays a flash of bewilderment. “Nyota…” he says quietly.

Nyota is so relieved she doesn’t even notice that he has called her by name. The day grinds into her chest and she chokes, tears suddenly forming in her eyes. She breathes deeply and tries to swipe them away with her fingers. “L-lieutenant Commander. I’m glad to see you’re…” she can’t finish the sentence because her breath hitches at the world “alive”.

He tilts his head and reaches over, two fingers grasping the hem of her skirt. “Your face is wet.”

She laughs then and shakes her head. He looks oddly childlike, tucked comfortably into the hospital bed. “Yeah, sorry. Sorry…”

He gives no indication of whether he is happy to see her. She feels silly all of a sudden, bursting into a private moment between him and his mother. She has no business seeing him like this, eyes hazy and hair messy and damp with sweat. Still, he doesn’t let go of her skirt.

The door slides open and Nyota stumbles away from the bed, nearly bumping into Amanda. Captain Pike strides in. Nyota immediately stands straight, hands tight against her sides. “C-Captain.”

Captain Pike assesses her for a moment, squinting at her figure. Her shoulders tense. This was not how she imagined meeting Captain Pike—face blotchy, nose sniffling, her eyeliner smudged. His face breaks into a grin. “Cadet Uhura!”

“Sir?” Nyota can’t wholly believe that Captain Pike knows her by name.

“At ease, Cadet. Excellent performance at the solstice concert.”

She relaxes and bows her head. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Your file is on my console right now. You’re one of only two cadets who has gotten not one but _two_ very strong recommendations for the _Enterprise_. I’ll be looking forward to evaluating your work.”

“It’s an honor, Sir.” _Two_ recommendations? She knows of one instructor her who told her he would recommend her, but wasn’t aware of a second person. Her eyes wander to Lieutenant Commander Spock blinking up at them from the bed.

“Now if you’ll excuse us, I’ve got some business with Spock.”

“Yes Sir.” Nyota begins to walk away when Spock suddenly tries to straighten up and says a meek, “Wait—”

All three of them turn to look at him. “S-She may stay.” His voice sounds strange and weak, like he’s struggling to maintain his usual unaffected tone.

To her surprise, Pike begins to laugh. “What in hell did they put in your hypo?”

Spock settles himself into a sitting position. “Vulcans do not require pain medication, but it seems that I was administered some regardless.”

Pike and Amanda exchange amused looks. “Well, I’ve got a lot of reports to write, so I don’t have time to wait for you to sober up. We’re going to have the proper paperwork and ceremonies when you’re recovered, but I wanted to let you know that you’ve earned yourself a promotion, _Commander_ Spock.”

Amanda and Nyota exchange smiles, and Amanda places a hand on Spock’s shoulder. “Thank you, Captain. I’m honored to have been of service,” Spock manages.

Pike glances at the two women before walking around the bed and leaning against the other side, lifting a knee onto the bed so that he’s half sitting beside him. “Now listen. Commander Roy…”

Spock looks away, staring out at the wall opposite his bed. “He did not survive.”

“No, Spock. I’m sorry.”

 “I had suggested that I stay behind, rather than him. I apologize for not being more insistent.”

Pike chuckles. “Don’t apologize for surviving, Spock. Commander Roy knew his duties. Honestly, it’s a miracle we managed to get a lock on you, the way you were spinning around out there.”

Spock shakes his head. “He was a good officer. It was a senseless loss.”

“I know, but space is full of unexpected things.” He pauses and leans closer, lowering his voice to a gentle murmur. “I listened to the recordings. Your helmet actually managed to retain the data. You did some really great work out there, Spock. You were calm, you thought everything through. You made good decisions. But at the end of the day, after doing everything you could, you followed your orders.” He places a hand on Spock’s shoulder. “I’m suddenly in need of a first officer, and I could certainly use someone like you by my side. I’d like you to consider my offer while you recover.”

All three of them are staring at Captain Pike now, unsure of how to react. After a long pause, Spock says, “Thank you, Captain. I will consider it.” Nyota is certain that Spock is very much in danger of smiling.

“Alright, I’ll leave you all to it. Excellent to finally meet you, Cadet Uhura.”

“Likewise, Sir.” She and Captain Pike exchange salutes.

He stops to shake Amanda’s hand. “A pleasure as always, Lady Amanda. We’ll have to have to catch up under better circumstances.”

Nyota watches Amanda bow her head slightly, suddenly collected and demure. She seems unlike the energetic, playful woman Nyota knows. _Lady?_ Is Spock some sort of Vulcan royalty? Part of some important house? She hadn’t considered the possibility given his presence in Starfleet.

When Captain Pike leaves, Spock’s attention is on Nyota once more. After an excruciating pause, Amanda claps her hands and says, “You know what, I’m going to go talk to the doctor about when you’ll be ready for release. Be back soon,” she crosses the room quickly, and before Nyota can react, the door shuts behind her with a hiss.

“Can I help you with something, Cadet?” Spock asks finally, as if they’re sitting in his office.

She laughs, takes a few tentative steps towards the bed. “No, no. I’m sorry. I just ran into your mother, and she asked me to come along. You gave us a bit of a fright.”

“I caused you concern?”

Nyota finds it irritating that he looks genuinely surprised. She sits on the edge of the bed and crosses her arms. “ _Obviously_. Your comm was out of commission, I hadn’t heard a word from you in weeks, and then I hear about this whole debacle—of _course_ I was concerned.” She doesn’t dare say the word “terrified” out loud.

Spock looks down at his hands, which rest lightly on his lap. “I… did not realize that it would disturb you. I apologize.” Nyota thinks he almost looks embarrassed.

“ _I have been practicing the songs you assigned_ ,” Nyota says in Vulcan, leaning her head on her shoulder. “ _Improvement is apparent_.” She realizes too late that she forgot to check her enunciation, and can’t recall whether her tone was correct.

“ _Undoubtedly,_ ” he says, and Nyota’s sharp ears are sure there is an unusual cadence to the word. His gaze wanders up her arm and finally to her face. They are sitting close again—somehow they always wind up so close to each other. He’s staring at her with an unfamiliar intensity, and his eyelids look a little heavy. She wonders just how drug-addled his mind is at the moment. She sees his throat contract as he swallows, the way his lips quiver with the motion. Her breath catches and Jackson’s words return to her with ferocity.

 _You two can’t keep your eyes off each other_.

Spock’s hand inches towards her on the bed. Her heart beats a little faster. Just as she thinks he’s going to do or say something—though _what_ , she can’t imagine—the door slides open. Spock quickly replaces his hand on his lap.

Amanda walks in and her gaze darts between them for a beat. Nyota quickly stands up. “Thank you for bringing me here. Looks like Lieu—sorry, _Commander_ Spock is doing okay. I’ll leave you two.” Her voice sounds unnaturally bright. She cringes.

Amanda smiles. “It was wonderful to see you again, Nyota. My stay here is only brief this time, but I hope we will meet again soon.” Something in her voice makes Nyota want to retreat quickly.

“Me too. Safe travels,” she replies, tucking her hands self-consciously behind her back as she crosses the room.

At the door she pauses and looks back. Spock is still staring at her with that strange expression, his face flushed with a blue-green tint. She forces a smile and waves, “I hope you have a swift recovery. I’ll see you later.” She steps out of the room before he has a chance to reply.


	10. He Can No Longer Deny His Affection for Nyota

When Spock wakes once more, the sky outside is dark, San Francisco reduced to a spray of glimmering lights beyond the window. The ambient sounds of hospital monitors hum around him. His mother is dozing on a chair at his bedside, a PADD held loosely on her knees. As he pulls himself up to sit, she wakes with a start. Her face breaks into a smile when she sees him blinking at her.

“You’re awake. You slept for quite a while.” She pulls her chair closer and reaches for his hand on the bed.

“My body was recovering.” He gives her hand a quick squeeze. “You should rest. Do you have proper lodgings for your stay?”

“Yes, yes, but I wanted to wait until you woke up so I could say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?”

“Your father is in a nearby star system, so I thought I’d take this chance to visit him. When he heard you were going to make a full recovery, he thought there would no longer be a reason for him to come visit.” She rolls her eyes. “Logic, and all that.”

Spock nods, “Indeed… Thank you for visiting. Though it was not necessary, I am glad to see you.”

Amanda laughs. “You sound like your father. Of _course_ I came. Congratulations on your promotion.”

The word promotion brings back an unsettling set of hazy memories. Spock turns away from his mother and withdraws his hand quickly.

He had really believed he would die this time. When he woke in the hospital, he was surprised. Just as he began to adjust to the fact of his survival, Nyota appeared, as if conjured by a dream. He let her name slip before he could stop himself. She stood before him, eyes shining in the fluorescent light. His mind was impaired, softened by whatever medication they had mistakenly administered him. He remembers, with mortification, that he reached for her. He was afraid to touch her, in case she was truly a hallucination that would disappear in his fingers, so he held the fabric of her uniform like a child. As soon as she spoke, he knew that her voice was the last thing he heard before he lost consciousness. He hardly comprehended Captain Pike entering the room, he was so focused on her—the tremble in her lips, the moisture escaping her eyes. He did not want her to leave, he wanted to keep studying every corner of her face, so he asked—almost pleaded—for her to stay.

When they were alone… he does not know exactly what he might have done if his mother had not returned so quickly, but he is sure it would have been regrettable.

Spock sits in silence, absorbing his acute humiliation. His near fatality jolted his mind, rearranging everything so that his priorities are in sharp clarity. He can no longer deny his affection for Nyota.

“She was really worried about you,” Amanda says, knowing without asking what is passing through his mind.

“Please, Mother,” Spock says, looking down and clasping his hands on his lap. “Do not say anything more about it. I suffered a moment of weakness. I am afraid I may not be able to control my… feelings.” He reluctantly lets the word escape. “I must become more disciplined.”

“Spock…” Amanda touches his intertwined fingers. “Don’t try to. Sometimes it’s easier to allow yourself to feel. You’ll never be able to control something unless you understand it.” When Spock doesn’t respond, Amanda stands. She leans over and kisses his forehead. “Don’t forget,” she whispers into his hair. “We have raised you in the Vulcan way, but you are also my child. If you don’t learn to accept that part of you, you will continue to struggle. Take care.”

As Amanda walks towards the door, Spock says a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

She turns and furrows her eyebrows. “Why?”

“It must be difficult for you. To be with father and myself.”

Amanda laughs. “Oh, Spock. I understand your ways very well. I don’t need to be told that I am loved. Get some more rest. I’ll call tomorrow.”

The door shuts behind her, and Spock finds himself alone once more.

* * *

Spock does not see Cadet Uhura again until the ceremony conducted to award his promotion and announce his appointment as First Officer of the _Enterprise_. He sees her and most of the Academy Choir members in the small audience. They all smile and raise clumsy salutes when he sees them, and he gives them a slight nod in return.

“Looks like some cadets are warming up to you after all,” Captain Pike says at the end of the ceremony.

“That is because none have taken my classes and therefore have no reason to resent me.”

Pike laughs and gives his shoulder a gentle clap. “True enough. Except for Cadet Uhura—you recommended her after she took your phonology course last semester, right?”

“Correct. However, she handled my course materials with ease.”

Cadet Uhura takes this ill-timed moment to approach them, presumably to offer her congratulations in person.

“Cadet Uhura, we were just talking about you.” Captain Pike says as she walks up.

“Captain,” Cadet Uhura stands straighter, tucking her hands politely behind her back. “Good things, I hope.” She glances at Spock.

“He was just telling me that you were his best student.”

Cadet Uhura’s complexion darkens slightly.

“Those were not my exact words,” Spock says quickly.

Captain Pike grins at them and says, “Well, I’ve got to talk to a few people, so I’ll leave you two. Good to see you again, Cadet.”

“Likewise.”

Spock wishes that Captain Pike would not walk away, leaving them to face each other alone. He waits a moment before speaking, hoping that someone might approach them with an interruption. At last he says, in Vulcan, “ _Did your recess pass well?_ ”

“ _Yes, quite,_ ” she replies. Though her accent has improved, her voice sounds slightly different—with less conviction than her usual manner of speaking. “ _Congratulations again_.”

“ _Thank you_.” After a long, uncomfortable interval, Spock says, “ _I… apologize for my behavior at our last meeting. I was… impaired.”_

 _“There is no offense where none is taken,”_ Uhura says, repeating a phrase that Spock himself used often. “ _You were injured. I apologize for interrupting.”_

 _“I was hardly occupied with any uninterruptable task,”_ Spock says, and she lets out a small chuckle in response—another sound that he missed _._ He ventures to ask, _“How is your ka’athyra practice progressing?”_

 _“It is progressing well,”_ she replies, before averting her eyes and saying, “ _Though I will soon be in need of another lesson. I believe I am prepared to proceed to more advanced techniques.”_

 _“I must assess your performance to determine if that is a correct statement.”_ Despite having determined that it might be best if he avoided meeting with Cadet Uhura, especially in private, Spock finds he cannot resist an opportunity to hear her play. He is curious about how her abilities have improved in his absence.

 _“I also have a personal query for you,”_ Cadet Uhura adds with a small smile.

Spock tilts his head, but before he can ask anything about it, the other members of the choir join them.

“What are you two always going on in Vulcan about?” Cadet Sonia Blanco says, appearing behind Cadet Uhura and putting an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “Share with the class.” Cadet Uhura’s face becomes an even deeper shade of violet and she shrugs Cadet Blanco away.

“I’m just practicing,” she says, taking a step backwards. Spock had not noticed how close they were standing. He takes a step backwards as well.

“Congratulations, Commander,” Christie says. “We heard about what happened from Cadet Hunt. We’re really glad you’ve made a full recovery.”

Spock scans their faces, but does not see Cadet Hunt.

“He’s not here,” Cadet Uhura says quickly.

Spock nods. “Thank you for attending the ceremony.”

“We wanted to support you,” Angie replies with a smile. “We’ve had a good time practicing and performing with you. You’ll be a great First Officer.”

Spock had always wondered what it was like for fellow officers who were admired by cadets. It seemed rather inconvenient to him, and he saw no merit in having relationships with trainees, but now he is beginning to imagine being in command. Cadets are future shipmates, after all, and earning their respect might encourage cooperation once aboard. He understands suddenly why Captain Pike maintains such a friendly rapport with them.

 “Your support is appreciated.” He offers them a slight smile. “Please notify me of your next performance. It would be my pleasure to attend.”

The cadets all glance at Uhura, who gives a very subtle shake of her head. A short pause follows, before the cadets resume conveying congratulations. Cadet Uhura idles as the others disperse, and when they are alone once more she asks, “When would you be available to meet in the next week?”

Spock runs through his schedule mentally, before saying, “Unfortunately, I will be occupied with training for my new position. I am only available in the late evening.”

Cadet Uhura nods, understanding. “When the practice rooms are closed. Well…” She looks down. “I guess, get in touch when your schedule frees up.”

Again, Cadet Uhura is about to walk away, and again he feels compelled to stop her. He does not know when he will have the opportunity to see her again. Unlike last semester, he is not her instructor, and therefore cannot expect to see her during office hours. She has no reason to approach him outside of ka’athyra lessons. “Perhaps…” he begins, hardly comprehending the words that he is about to speak, “If you are available in the evening, we could meet in my quarters.”

Cadet Uhura stares at him with wide eyes, her body tense. Seeing her discomfort makes him want to retract the suggestion immediately. He is devising a casual, reasonable way to do so when she says, hesitantly, “Sure… What night works best for you?”

“Tomorrow?” he asks, after a pause.

“Sure. 2030?”

“That would be acceptable. I will send you my room number via transmission tonight.”

She smiles then, tucks a stray hair behind her ear. “I’ll… be looking forward to it.”

Spock swallows and nods. He is fairly certain that his own anticipation far exceeds hers.

They exchange shy goodbyes, and Cadet Uhura rejoins her friends, who are departing the venue. Spock is still watching her walk away when Captain Pike appears once more at his shoulder.

“Hey, I’ve got some people I want to introduce you to.” He follows Spock’s gaze before saying, slowly, “You know… we’ve got a long way to go before it’s time to submit personnel requests, but I already have a lot of strong candidates floating around my databank. You’re lucky that Commander Roy took some of that off your plate already.”

Spock turns to Pike. “It does alleviate my duties. I trust his choices are exemplary.”

Pike looks towards the exiting cadets. “I think Cadet Uhura might make an excellent communications ensign. That’s not going to be a problem, is it?”

Spock tries to keep his expression neutral. “I do not understand why it would be. Her skills are—”

“You two seem close.” Pike interrupts impatiently, not one to prevaricate from his point. “I was surprised when I saw her at the hospital the other day. Didn’t think you would have that kind of relationship with a cadet.”

“I do not know what ‘kind’ of relationship you are referring to. I am merely instructing her in playing ka’athyra, as the cadet wishes to learn, and I am the only qualified master of the instrument available to her.” Spock tells himself that this is not a lie, that it is a fair summation of their relationship.

Pike squints at him, looking unconvinced. “I mean, you’re not her instructor anymore, so it’s none of my business. The regulations have gotten fairly lax in the past decade, what with longer missions, larger crews, deep space exploration… but you’re going to be my first officer. I’d like to know if this is going to interfere with operations on my ship.”

“I assure you, it will not. If you prefer, I can cease my relationship with her outside of duties once we are aboard.” Spock absolutely does not want Cadet Uhura to miss any opportunities because of his carelessness.

Pike waves a hand. “No, no, that won’t be necessary. Frankly, I’m a little relieved to see you having a personal relationship at all. It feels a bit absurd to say this to a Vulcan, but I just don’t want to see anyone playing favorites on my ship. If it were any other officer, I’d have more reservations, but I trust your discipline. I only want your word that it won’t be an issue.”

Spock wants to argue more, deny the insinuations about his relationship with Cadet Uhura, but he does not believe it would alter Captain Pike’s position on the matter. “You have my word,” he replies reluctantly.

“That’s all I needed to hear. Now come on, I’ve left an admiral hanging over there.” Pike begins walking away and Spock gathers his thoughts before he follows. It is clear to him that he needs to act with more careful moderation when he is with Cadet Uhura. He had not been concerned when his mother noticed his attraction—she was, after all, his mother, and they shared a unique, intimate bond—but if Captain Pike had taken note of a change in his behavior, his feelings must be more apparent than he realized. He thinks about the odd tone in Cadet Blanco’s voice when she approached them earlier. Who else has noticed? Does Cadet Uhura suspect something?

He recalls her desire to ask him a personal query. He spends the next twenty-four hours wondering, fearing what that question might be.

* * *

In the hour before Cadet Uhura is set to arrive at his quarters, Spock begins to deeply regret his invitation. He had been considering his conversation with Captain Pike, and after analyzing his interactions with Cadet Uhura, determined that this was one of many ways he had allowed their relationship to extend into territories that were beyond the strictly professional relationships most officers and cadets shared.

For instance, inviting her to accompany him to an off-campus engagement. The informality in their frequent banter. Sharing a bed with her—regardless of the circumstance (which, if he is being perfectly honest with himself, was avoidable had he been more willful). Inviting her to his private quarters late at night might finally cross the line.

Still, on his way home that evening, he stops at a corner market to purchase a brand of tea that he has frequently seen her drink, tucking it into a cabinet just in case. He cleans his apartment thoroughly and shuts his bedroom door tight. He places his ka’athyra on the coffee table in front of his couch and sits at his small kitchen table. He is thankful that his mother had insisted he should have two chairs, instead of the one he originally thought would be sufficient. He tries to distract himself with going over some schematics in the last ten minutes before her arrival, and jumps to his feet as soon as he hears his doorbell chime. He opens a transmission on the door’s monitor, and sees Cadet Uhura’s face gazing back at him through the display. She gives him a quick wave, and he deactivates the lock to let her in. He paces before the door while she rides the lift up to his third floor residence, smoothing out his dark sweater and pants, as if a single crease might betray his unease. He wonders if it would have been more appropriate for him to be in uniform. He changed into civilian clothes to eat dinner out of habit. He doesn’t have time to linger on this regret because his second bell chimes and he taps the control panel to let his door slide open.

Cadet Uhura stands at the threshold and they both fail to greet each other. They study one another for a long moment. She is also in civilian clothing—a beige sweater dress and black leggings, a leather jacket pulled over it. Her ka’athyra hangs from her shoulder, cradled in her arms between them.

Finally, Spock manages to move aside with a quiet, “Cadet Uhura.”

She returns the nod and steps inside. The door shuts behind her and in the silence of his apartment he feels how alone they truly are. He sits down on the far end of his couch as Cadet Uhura pulls off her boots. She kneels in front of the coffee table and unbuckles her ka’athyra case. The wind whistles through tree branches outside in the silence.

“Before we start… I had a question for you.” Cadet Uhura places her instrument next to his on the coffee table and sits at the opposite end of the couch. Both of them seem to be pressing their shoulders into their respective corners, as though the couch between them might crumble under their weight.

Spock keeps an even tone as he says, “Yes?” despite the many, mostly unpleasant possibilities that race through his mind.

“Well, if it’s not too much to ask …” Cadet Uhura nibbles her lip before continuing. “Some of the Starfleet higher ups really liked our performance, and they want us to repeat it at the First Contact Celebration in New York City. We wouldn’t have to rehearse as much this time, since we’ve already learned and performed the songs once, but… would you be able to accompany us again?”

Spock takes a pause before he responds. While he feels an immense relief, he is surprised to find a second emotion nagging the edges of his consciousness—disappointment. He is not certain of its source. What was he expecting?

Cadet Uhura appears to take his silence as unwillingness, because she says rather quickly, “But we totally understand if you’re too busy with _Enterprise_ things, with the promotion and—”

“Yes.” Spock says. He cannot stop himself from leaping at the chance to see her more frequently.

She looks surprised, leaning forward with a breathy laugh. “Really?”

“Certainly. I enjoyed performing with you, and can accommodate another such experience in my schedule.” All of these things were true, so he did not feel entirely dishonest in citing them as his reasons for accepting.

“And travelling to New York with us won’t be too much?”

“I will be attending the celebration in New York with the _Enterprise_ senior crew regardless. Captain Pike has mentioned on more than one occasion that he enjoyed our performance. I therefore find it unlikely that he would object to sparing me for some time during our trip. I will verify his approval at our meeting tomorrow.”

Cadet Uhura claps her hands together and says, “Great!” with such enthusiasm, Spock cannot wholly contain a smile.

“Now let us begin with the first song I assigned you.” He turns his attention back to their instruments before he can remain fixated for too long on her delight.

After three songs and many slight corrections, Spock concludes, “While you have made some minor errors, I believe your abilities have improved sufficiently. At our next lesson, I will begin teaching you the next set of fingering patterns. They will, however, be quite advanced. They will require a degree of precision that will take exceptional discipline.”

Cadet Uhura places her instrument on the coffee table. She seems more relaxed, her movements less strained. Music has a way of loosening the tense atmosphere that often hangs between them. “Sounds exciting.” She gazes at Spock’s ka’athyra, sitting untouched beside hers. “Will you…” she shifts her eyes to his face. “Will you play for me? I feel like it’s been some time since I’ve really gotten to hear you.”

Spock studies her face, bright with anticipation. “Very well.” He pulls his instrument onto his lap and she sits back, leaning with one elbow on the opposite arm of the couch. He drops his gaze and begins running his fingers across the strings, playing snatches of a melody.

“I don’t recognize this song…” Cadet Uhura comments at a rest.

“It is not an existing song,” Spock corrects. “It is an improvisation.”

Cadet Uhura’s smile stretches wide across her face. Spock continues to strum, with slightly more enthusiasm. Soon a second melody joins his, as Cadet Uhura harmonizes with a low hum. He stops playing abruptly, surprised at the change in sound.

Uhura raises her hands up, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to…”

The corner of Spock’s mouth twitches into a smile. He begins playing again, adjusting the melody to be more suitable to accompany a human voice. Cadet Uhura smiles and leans her head against the back of the couch.

 _“On the starship_ Enterprise _… there’s someone who’s in Satan’s guise…”_

Spock lifts an eyebrow and Uhura mimicks the gesture with a slanted grin. She continues on, fighting to keep her voice steady. “ _Whose devil ears and devil eyes… could rip your heart from you—”_ the last part of her melody falters into laughter.

“Vulcans are a nonviolent people,” Spock says, pausing his song. “We do not practice senseless dissection.”

“I’m just making up a song. I never said it was about you.”

“Considering that I will be the only person aboard the _Enterprise_ with pointed ears, I could only assume you were referring to me.”

Cadet Uhura smirks and crosses her arms without responding, so Spock resumes playing. After a few strains, she continues, _“Girls in space be wary, be wary, be wary… girls in space be wary_ , _we know not what he’ll do.”_ She holds the last syllable in a long, quivering note that sends a small shiver through his spine.

Spock stops playing one more. “Are you mocking me?”

“Only teasing a little.” She turns her knees towards him, leans forward on her elbows. “Things have been rather serious lately, with your little brush with death. I was just trying to have some fun.”

Spock lets his instrument rest in the crook of one elbow and stretches his other arm over the back of the couch. “I must apologize once more for causing you distress. It was unintentional.”

Uhura’s mouth twists into a frown. “You could have sent me one _little_ transmission on your trip.”

“I did not think you would wish to receive any communication from me,” Spock admits.

Cadet Uhura looks down, fidgeting with the vine-shaped silver ring on her middle finger. “I just thought that when you said we could be friends… I... I know we fight sometimes, but… that doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to you, or don’t want to talk to you.” Her face flushes a little and she looks up at him with a glare. “But don’t _ever_ make me say that out loud again.”

“I have a perfect memory, so that will not be necessary.”

“Good.”

Spock had always suspected that, despite their differences, Cadet Uhura might actually care about his well-being, but until now he could never be certain. He knew from her interactions with fellow cadets and her friendly rapport with other officers that she was generally a caring person. Yet with him, she made offhand comments about friendship in a such a flurry of embarrassment, that sometimes he does not fully grasp what she is trying to say. Hearing it said so plainly sent a unique warmth through his body.

She looks around briefly before saying, “So… uh… how was your visit to Vulcan?”

“Agreeable.” He places ka’athyra next to hers and from her expectant gaze, realizes this answer is not sufficient.

Spock sits back and tells her about the mild weather, about tending for his mother’s succulent garden. She tells him about combat practice, about the thesis idea she intends to propose at the end of the semester. She asks if he has any friends on Vulcan, anyone to visit while he’s there. He surprises himself when he tells her about T’Pring and their separation.

She stares at him with a combination of astonishment and sympathy. “Yeah… I also went through a sort of break up over the vacation—I mean, much shorter relationship, really a trivial thing—but it’s still not easy.”

Spock wonders if she has told him this with purpose, to explain the night after the solstice concert and inform him that she had discontinued whatever might have been transpiring between her and Cadet Hunt. He does not know why she would want him to know something so personal. Is this a typical conversation between humans who are “friends”?

She reaches out her hand, lets it hover in mid-air before resting it very lightly on the edge of his knee, so that he can just feel the pads of her four fingers. “Are you… okay?”

“I am,” he says distractedly. His gaze can’t decide between her eyes, which intimidate him with their depth and focus, and her lips, which draw him in unwillingly. He swallows. “Are you?”

“Yeah…” She licks her lips. His body feels suddenly tense and hot.

He stands up abruptly. She blinks and sits straighter, her fingers curling into her palm. “Would you like some tea?” he says quickly, hoping to put some distance between their bodies.

“Sure…” she also stands up, tugging out the wrinkles in her dress.

He sets some water to boil in the kitchenette at the corner of his living room, and she sits down at the dining table. Spock turns to the topic to more innocuous subjects—a new article in the Starfleet Academy Journal which he thought might interest her. She has read it, and they discuss the details while he prepares tea.

When he sets the cup in front of her, she holds the warm beverage to her lips and inhales. “I love this blend. I didn’t know you drank it.”

Spock takes a sip and finds the flavor pleasant. “I don’t.”

Her eyes find his over the rim of her cup. Her face looks a little flushed, mostly likely due to the steam. He averts his gaze.

They continue to talk long after their tea cups are drained, far later than either anticipated. At last, just shy of midnight, they both decide it would be best to part ways. At his doorway, they stand for too long, staring at each other. The air between them feels charged with expectation—though Spock doesn’t dare wonder what for.

He knows for certain what he would really like to do: take one step forward, hold her face in both his hands, and kiss her, ask her to stay. He does not try to make any assumptions about her thoughts—guessing is not within his expertise. Finally, she waves and steps outside. When the door closes behind her, Spock presses his palm on its smooth surface. He stands there longer than he will ever admit, wondering how her skin would feel under his fingers.

If he had kissed her then, she would have surely kissed him back, and they could have avoided a number of misunderstandings that followed.


	11. She Really Must Like Him More Than She Ever Wanted To

Nyota knows something has changed. She can’t describe what exactly, but something in the air between her and Commander Spock is different. Maybe dropping the “Lieutenant” from his title, letting his name fall so quickly from her tongue, dropped something else from their interactions. Or maybe all that’s really changed is her.

After she returned to her room from visiting Spock at the hospital, Nyota called Sonia right away and said, “ _What_ have you been telling Jackson?”

Sonia was quiet for a moment, before asking, “Is Gaila home?”

“No…”

“Okay, I’m coming over.”

Sonia lived two floors down from her, so a quick lift ride later, she was sitting calmly on a chair while Nyota paced the space between her and Gaila’s beds.

“I feel like you guys have been conspiring against me!” Nyota groaned, crossing her arms behind her head. “At least _ask_ me whether I’m—” she raised air quotes on either side of her head, “—in ‘ _love’_ with anyone, before you go around telling people! Especially if that person is my future boyfriend! Or…. past boyfriend, I guess, at this point.”

Sonia sighed. “You two broke up?”

“Pretty sure.” Nyota bit her lip.

“Damn it. Listen, I just thought it might motivate him, you know? He was really dragging it out…”

Nyota sat down on her bed. She was still wearing her uniform from earlier that day. Sonia was in Starfleet issue training clothes, probably about to leave for the gym. Nyota sighed and pulled off her boots, dropping them to the ground by her bed.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine…” She didn’t feel ready to explain everything that had happened at the hospital. “I just… we were having a lot of fun, and now everything is weird.”

Sonia joined Nyota on the bed and placed a hand on her knee. “Look, I’m sorry. I got carried away playing matchmaker. You and Jackson seemed to be working well, so I didn’t want to bring up all that stuff with Lieutenant Commander Spock.”

“Commander, actually.”

“What?”

“He just got promoted.”

“Oh….” Sonia looked puzzled, and seemed on the brink of asking something when Nyota cut her off.

“I thought we were on the same page about Commander Spock. It was a fun joke. Why didn’t you tell me that you were taking it so seriously?” Nyota stared at Sonia’s fingernails, neatly clipped and coated with clear polish. Her own were beginning to chip.

“I mean, what was I going to say? Hey, I know we joke about you having a crush on your instructor-slash-superior officer, but I’m your best friend and I know you’re seriously into him? What would you have said?” Sonia laughed and shook her head. “I didn’t think it was something you wanted or needed to hear.”

That was fair. Nyota most certainly would not have taken that assertion well, even twenty-four hours ago, but after the events of that day, she found herself hesitating. Sonia, sharp as ever, caught her silence immediately.

“You never stopped to think about it?” she asked after a pause. “I know you like doing well in your classes, love being in the chorale, and playing that Vulcan instrument of yours—but it’s different. You are always _so_ mad at him, for no reason. You’re never unreasonable, Nyota. Are you some kid on the playground? What happened on that first day of class?”

“I… don’t know.”

Sonia raised her eyebrows, a smug grin already beginning to creep onto her face. “So you’re not going to deny it?”

Nyota shrugged, felt her face heat up with every word. “Can I… can I tell you something silly?”

Sonia bumped her shoulder. “Sure.”

“On my eighth birthday, my mom took me to see a ka’athyra performance in Nairobi, and I met this Vulcan kid after the show. He was the first Vulcan child I’d ever really seen—we ran off and played together for a bit and well… I was just so happy. Probably one of my best birthdays. There’s something about Commander Spock that reminds me of that night.”

“I mean, they all have the same haircut,” Sonia offered, and Nyota slapped her in the arm. “Or maybe it’s the ka’athyra.”

“Well, whatever it is. After all of the stress at the Academy, everything that’s yet to come once I’ve earned my commission… I thought it would be so nice if I could go back to that feeling again, just for a moment. But of course, Commander Spock has no idea about any of that. He basically ignored me for a while. I thought it would go away eventually, but the more know about him, the worse it gets. I just hate myself for it. God, he makes me _so_ angry.”

To her surprise, Sonia just started laughing.

“Are you going to make fun of me now?” Nyota frowned.

“No, no, I’m sorry. You’re just… so cute and so dumb.”

“I’m never telling you anything again.”

Sonia wrapped her arms around Nyota and gave her a tight squeeze. “You are the worst at this.”

“Get out of my room,” Nyota muttered, even as she returned the embrace.

Sonia released Nyota and hopped off the bed. “Yeah, I should go see Jackson. He’s probably pretty bummed out.”

Nyota nodded, a wave of guilt tightening her chest. She still hadn’t called Jackson since she left choir practice. She was too humiliated to talk to him.

“Maybe you should just accept it and tell him,” Sonia said from the doorway. “Commander Spock, I mean. A straightforward, Vulcan rejection might help you get over it.”

Sonia does not mention Nyota’s potential feelings for Commander Spock again until they are walking through the quad after his promotion ceremony. As they cut through a diagonal path bisecting one of the lawns, she says, “Okay, this is going to sound crazy.”

“What?”

“I’m starting to think Commander Spock likes you—I mean _really_ likes you.”

“No _way_ ,” Nyota says immediately, rolling her eyes. “Why would you even say that?”

“It’s just… a feeling I got. From the way he looks at you.”

Nyota laughs out loud this time. “That _is_ crazy.”

Sonia shrugs “You guys were standing _awfully_ close, though…”

“Just shut up.”

She thinks about it often in the weeks that follow, though: Sonia’s words, and her own. The way Spock held onto the hem of her skirt in that brightly-lit hospital room. She got so used to chasing him, only to have him run in the opposite direction every time she got a little close. Suddenly, it feels like he’s stopped and turned to face her so abruptly, she’s crashes right into him.

They begin to take lessons in his apartment more frequently, when Spock’s schedule doesn’t allow him to visit the practice rooms.  Each time, she stays far later than she plans to, drinking tea and talking about anything and everything at his little square dining table. Or sometimes on the couch, her legs folded up comfortably, Spock holding his cup in both hands. In the choir room, she is fairly certain she catches him watching her from time to time. She tells herself that she’s making it all up: the lingering looks; the way he leans across the table attentively every time she speaks. That it’s all because she herself is becoming aware that Sonia is right, Jackson is right—that she really must like him more than she ever wanted to.

When they practice their songs in Vulcan, the way he watches her almost makes her forget the words.

* * *

New York City is always busy and loud, but on the weekend of the First Contact celebration, it is positively bursting with energy. Host to the biggest First Contact celebration in the world, it draws thousands of people from around the globe—and even some off-worlders looking to participate in the revelry. The Vulcan high council, Vulcan Federation administrators, and members of the ancient families travel to Earth as well, to celebrate the bond between their two planets. Streets are shut down for parades, different parts of the city present musical performances (the biggest one being, of course, in Times Square), fireworks fly over the Hudson—in short, it’s a giant party.

The official Federation celebrations are less rowdy, confined to a hotel not far from the the epicenter of festivities in Midtown and Hell’s Kitchen. The ceremonies, performances, and presentations are more tasteful, mostly out of respect for their Vulcan guests, who don’t enjoy such displays of excess. The chorale performs in uniform this time, in a large ballroom full of sharply dressed dinner guests. The audience is a combination of Starfleet formal wear and the deep golds and coppers of formal Vulcan robes.

It was a point of contention, whether or not Spock should be in Vulcan-style clothing or his Starfleet uniform. The Academy finally determined that uniform would be best, in order to show their commitment to inclusion in Starfleet, his chest pinned with the medals and honors he’s already earned during his brief commission. At the conclusion of the performance, the chorale is given a table at the dinner, and allowed to mingle among the guests as a gesture of appreciation from the Academy administration.

While the cadets can’t believe their luck—a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to interact with nearly every important person in Starfleet, as well as Vulcan Federation leaders—they are equally excited to throw off their uniforms and join in with the raucous celebrations in the city outside.

They lose Spock very quickly, barely given a moment to congratulate him before he’s whisked away by Captain Pike. Nyota finds herself alone at their table, watching the guests chatting around the room. Christie and Angie are speaking to the Academy commandant and Sonia is nervously starting up a conversation with a xenobiologist she admires. Jackson is among a small group of cadets in a lively conversation with a starship captain. Nyota is content to just sit for a moment, sipping a glass of champagne.

“Nyota!” Two small hands are on her shoulders, a familiar voice at her ear. Nyota twists in her seat to see Amanda, dressed in a formal Vulcan dress, standing behind her.

“Amanda! I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“I take it Spock didn’t mention it.” Amanda grins.

Nyota stands up. “He probably thought it would be ‘irrelevant’.”

Amanda laughs. “True enough. Fantastic performance, dear. Spock really does not exaggerate about how lovely your voice is.”

Nyota blushes, unable to imagine Spock calling anything “lovely”.

“I’m glad I caught you! I’d really like you to meet my husband.” She hooks her arm into Nyota’s elbow and begins leading her across the room.

Nyota browses the crowd of Vulcan officials flanking Ambassador Sarek, searching for a face that might look like Spock’s. Amanda walks past each of them and stops, at last, in the center.

“My husband,” she gives Ambassador Sarek a slight curtsey.

“My wife,” Sarek extends two fingers and Amanda raises two of her own to meet his. She smiles as their fingertips touch, and shifts to stand close to him.

“Sarek, I’d like you to meet Cadet Nyota Uhura. She is quite a fan of your ka’athyra playing.”

Nyota is too awestruck to speak for a moment. Finally, she manages to raise a Vulcan salute and say, in as precise an accent as she can manage, “ _Greetings, Ambassador. It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”_

Sarek is evidently surprised to be addressed in his native tongue, as are several nearby Vulcans who glance in her direction. _“Greetings, Cadet. You speak our language well.”_

 _“I have studied it since I was young. I find its sound and structure pleasing to both my ear and tongue.”_ She tucks her hands behind her back in an imitation of Spock’s standard pose. Sarek does the same and for a moment, she sees the resemblance to his son very clearly. _“I attended your performance on Lunar One. It was enjoyable.”_

Sarek gave her a nod of acknowledgment.

“She’s the cadet I told you about—the one Spock’s been teaching.” Amanda cuts in, giving Nyota a quick wink.

_“My wife informed me of your proficiency. I have high confidence in her judgments.”_

“Oh, it was only secondhand,” Amanda places a hand on Sarek’s chest. “Spock is the one who is always telling me how ‘exemplary’ her abilities are. Apparently she’s got a great ear.”

Sarek studies her and Nyota feels her face redden under his gaze. The longer they speak, the more she notices familiar mannerisms—the way he tilts his head, the quick, direct paths his eyes take.

She really feels stupid to have never put two and two together. She was too busy navigating their arguments and overthinking their interactions to really look into Spock’s background, though it had crossed her mind occasionally, because of Amanda. Nobody really expects these kinds of coincidences—a trick of fate, really—to happen in real life. The odds are astronomical.

Spock appears beside her, so close their shoulders are almost touching. Nyota jumps a little when he speaks. “Good evening, Mother. Father.”

An uncomfortable silence passes, Spock and his father caught in a standoff as Sarek does not offer any greeting. Amanda, undisturbed by the strained atmosphere, says, “Spock, you played wonderfully. You two sound great together.”

Sarek shifts his gaze back to Nyota and says, pointedly ignoring Spock, “Your performance was indeed satisfactory and enjoyable. Now, if you will excuse me, I must speak with some associates.”

“Of course, Sir. It’s been a pleasure.” Nyota raises a salute, feeling a bit lightheaded as she says to Ambassador Sarek—actually _in person_ —, “ _Live long and prosper_.”

Sarek raises a salute in return with a nod. “ _Peace and long life,_ Cadet Nyota Uhura.”

As Sarek walks away, an admiral approaches them with a greeting of, “Lady Amanda!”

After exchanging a few pleasantries, Spock and Nyota leave the admiral to speak with Amanda. They drift away from the crowd, towards an unoccupied space along the windowed wall. The city blinks and gleams below, only a few buildings reaching to the same height as this one. Nyota lets her hand brush the glass. The winter air presses cold against her knuckle.

“That was weird,” Nyota says finally.

“My father and I… have our differences.” Nyota does not ask him to elaborate, but to her surprise, he does. “He had wanted me to enroll in the Vulcan Science Academy, but I chose Starfleet instead.”

“Oh.” They continue to gaze out the window, staring at anything besides each other. “Ambassador Sarek is really your father?” Nyota asks, because she wants to hear it clearly in Commander Spock’s own voice.

“He is.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was—”

“Irrelevant,” Nyota finishes.

“Precisely.”

Nyota turns her hand and presses her palm against the flickering web of lit windows and passing vehicles. “But it wasn’t!” she says, and turns to look at him at last. Their gazes meet and she knows, absolutely for certain, that he is the same boy she met all those years ago. She is even more certain that he recognizes her as well.

“I did not—”

“You’re the one—”

“Commander Spock, there you are!”

They both turn from the window to see one of the _Enterprise_ officers (Nyota is fairly sure it’s the chief medical officer) weave towards them. “The person who basically invented long range scanners desperately wants to talk to you about how the _Enterprise_ ’s science station equipment is coming along.”

“Of course,” Commander Spock nods.

He glances at Nyota, but neither of them dare to say anything more while the other officer waits expectantly.

“We can continue this conversation later, Commander,” Nyota replies.

Spock swallows and only manages to nod before walking away in a pace that looks a bit quicker than his usual gait.

The rest of the night follows in a disconnected blur. Several courses and speeches later, the cadets return hurriedly to the accommodations provided for them in nearby Starfleet lodging. Sleeping two to a small bunk-bed room, they nudge elbows as they change and put on make up. The group of cadets shed their Starfleet selves and become regular twenty-something-year-olds, blending into the crowds outside clubs, leaning over bars, finding each other on dance floors. Nyota follows the other chorale members through the city, but no matter how many drinks she has, she feels kilometers away from everyone, back in a hot night in Nairobi.

In the bathroom of the third bar, while Nyota reapplies her lipstick, Sonia leans a hip against the edge of the sink and asks, “Well, do you think he’s cute?”

“I’d say so,” Nyota replies, assuming that Sonia’s talking about the guy she met at the previous bar, who then followed them to this one with his friends after spending nearly an hour talking to Sonia.

“Okay, on a scale of 1 to 10, how drunk are you?”

Nyota caps her lipstick. “A soft 5.”

“Okay, under 6, I trust you.” She leans toward the mirror and fixes her hair. “If we’re lucky, I’m not coming back to our room tonight.”

“Well, make sure you send me his address just in case.”

“I know, I know.”

Sonia squints at Nyota through the mirror. “You don’t have to stay, you know.”

“Hm?”

She turns around. “I can tell when you’re having a fun night and when you’d rather be reading in a quiet room.”

Nyota shrugs. “It’s New York on First Contact. It would be lame if I went home.”

Sonia crosses her arms. “Did something happen?”

Nyota starts rummaging through her purse. “No,” she replies as evenly as she can, checking her comm even though she’s not expecting any calls. “Just a little tired.”

Sonia reaches around Nyota’s head and gives her ponytail a tug. “Go home. I’ll tell everyone you got too drunk. Or should I tell them you went home with some guy…?”

“ _Sonia_.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll tell them you’re not feeling well.” Sonia readjusts her purse and begins walking towards the door. “Plus, it’ll be easier to wingman Jackson without you here, no offense.”

Nyota raises her eyebrows and lets out a breathy laugh. “Well, at least make sure she’s cuter than me.”

“Aye, aye.” Sonia gives her an exaggerated salute and walks out.

When Nyota exits the bar, it has just begun to snow. She pushes through the crowd until she turns away from the main drag onto a quieter street, lined mostly with Starfleet lodgings. She slows then, watching the little white pinpricks drift down from the sky. Having lived in Kenya and then San Francisco, she has never seen real snow. When she sees Commander Spock, standing alone outside one of the buildings, everything is already coated in a fine white dust.

He’s staring straight up, hands buried in the pockets of an overcoat he’s wearing on top of his uniform. It takes a moment for her to realize that he’s watching the snow. She smiles. Having lived on Vulcan and then in San Francisco, perhaps he hasn’t had many opportunities to see snow, either. Despite all of their differences, this detail makes him seem so close, so tangible.

“It’s beautiful,” Nyota says as she approaches. Spock looks down quickly. He is undoubtedly shocked to see her.

“It is fascinating,” he nods. She leans her weight against the cool, stone wall of the building. It is closer to a hotel than the one she’s on her way to, reserved for mid- to high-ranking officers and visiting dignitaries. They stand in the pale yellow glow of the lights outside its entrance.

“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything,” Nyota breaks the silence.

“Concerning?”

“You know what I mean.”

Spock falls silent. A car whirrs by. “I… I did not think you remembered. Human memories are—”

“Are you serious? I was _eight_. That’s definitely old enough to remember something like that.” Nyota can feel the familiar frustration bubbling up in her chest. Her voice grows louder before she can stop it.

“You never mentioned the encounter either.”

“Well I’m _sorry_ for not assuming that every dark-haired Vulcan is the same person!” She throws her hands up in an exaggerated shrug, leaning her head back against the wall.

“What consequence does any of this have?” Spock asks with sharp, measured enunciation.

“Because, it was… because you’re _impossible_.” Nyota can’t think of a clear reason why she’s so upset, why this distant childhood encounter should be so important. A stream of accusations spills out of her instead. “You ignored me in class all semester, you’re always playing this hot-and-cold, cat-and-mouse game—everything’s great and we’re getting along _so well_ one minute, and the next you say things like ‘irrelevant’ and ‘inconsequential’, I mean what are you even trying to prove? What is your _problem?”_

“Nyota, please.” Commander Spock’s tone carries a warning as he steps towards her.

She feels suddenly small, cornered between his body and the wall. She knows she is far, far out of line, but this goes beyond Starfleet, beyond their ranks and uniforms. The few drinks she’s had that night have left her feeling bold. She squares her shoulders and raises her chin to look him straight in the eye. “ _No_. Why do you always—”

She doesn’t have a chance to finish her sentence, completely forgets what that sentence was going to be, because he takes her face in both his hands and she’s kissing him back before her mind has even processed the fact that he’s kissing her. It’s desperate and hungry, their tongues inside each others’ mouths in an instant, their teeth clashing. Spock pulls away. His hands are still cupping either side of her jaw but his eyes are full of shock and apprehension. “I am sorry, I—”

She doesn’t allow him to complete his apology, and instead leans up, sliding her arms around his neck as she resumes the kiss. He reciprocates eagerly, leaning forward until she stumbles back into the wall. They stand there, pressed against the stone for a long moment, neither wanting to stop until another car drives by. They both pull back abruptly. They had forgotten for a moment that they are not alone, that someone could walk by at any minute.

They stare at each other, slightly short of breath, both waiting for the other to say something. Neither of them manage to. Spock takes her hand without a word and leads her through the doors. They cross the empty lobby in a few quick strides, staring at their reflections in the glass doors while they wait for the lift.

As soon as Spock has tapped in the floor number and the doors have shut, Nyota closes the space between them and kisses him again, burning suddenly with the urge to touch and taste. He leans back into the corner beside the control panel and she slides her knee between his legs and he runs his hands along her waist.

The lift makes a sound as they reach his floor and Nyota quickly steps away, backing into the opposite corner before the doors open. Captain Pike is standing there, checking his comm. He looks up and his eyes dart between the two of them. Nyota realizes with mortification that Spock’s lips have a pinkish tint from the lipstick she had freshly applied before leaving the bar. She is thankful that she had chosen a light shade. Pike’s eyebrows fly up so far Nyota is afraid they might leave his face entirely.

Spock’s ears and neck have turned a noticeable greenish hue. “Sir, I—” he begins, but Pike raises a palm to silence him. He waves his hand, directing them to pass. Spock exits the lift and Nyota wonders if she should follow. She decides that, at this point, all bets are off. She bows her head and walks past the captain.

“I’ll be okay pretending this never happened, Spock,” Pike says once inside, tapping at the control panel. “Have a good night.” The doors shut between them.

Spock stares at the lift with such an alarmed, dumbfounded look, Nyota almost laughs. When he looks at her again, there’s something in his eyes that makes whatever smile was beginning to form on her face wilt away into a tense line. In a split second, she’s in his arms and against the wall again. He’s biting her bottom lip and then their mouths are colliding and they’re stumbling down the hall in a frenzy of dragging and shoving. At the end of the corridor, Spock fumbles in his pockets for his access card. Nyota has unbuttoned his coat and undone the front of his uniform jacket before he’s swiped the key card. The doors barely slide open before he pushes her inside. Her hip knocks into the table on the left wall and Spock lifts her to sit on top of it, scattering the neat assortment of amenities that was stacked on its surface. The added height allows him to kiss her neck easily, his breath hot against her jacket collar. She pulls his body towards her, and he fits his hips between her legs, running one hand along her thigh. She yanks off his coat and jacket and lets them fall to the floor. Just as her hands slip into his shirt he pulls back suddenly, holding her wrists. His face is flushed and they’re both panting. His eyes have this hazy quality that she’s never seen in them, his eyelashes fluttering as he struggles to breathe more evenly.

“Nyota, is this… should we… I do not know if—” he gives several attempts at trying to make sense of what is happening, but Nyota does not want to, not yet. All she can think about is the skin under her fingertips and the hardness she can already feel against her thigh.

“Just shut up and undress me,” she says between breaths.

His eyes study hers for a second longer, then wander down to the short black dress she’s wearing under her jacket, the skin peeking out between its hem and her knee-high boots. She can almost see the clear, sharp lines of logic waver and blur behind his gaze. She tugs his shirt over his shoulders. The skin underneath is so warm, it almost feels hot. He pushes her hands away to pull off her jacket, letting it crumple onto the table behind her. She undoes the zipper of her dress and slides off the table, letting the fabric join his shirt on the floor. His hands are all over her without pause, and even as she leans down to take off her boots he continues biting and licking the back of her neck and her shoulders. His fingers slip under the wire of her bra and she shivers when they find her nipples. When her shoes and socks are in a heap on the floor, she turns to him with a fierce look. He tries to reach for her again but she pushes his chest until he backs into the bed, almost tripping over his travel bag.

She climbs over him and presses her elbows into the mattress on either side of his head as she leans down to kiss him. Her ponytail falls over her shoulder and against his ear and she feels him tremble slightly under its feathery touch. She trails kisses along his cheek and runs her tongue along ridges in his ear, sucking the pointed tip. She can feel his body tense between her legs, his breath catch. She reaches one arm down between their chests and deftly undoes his pants. When she slides her hand inside the waistband, he makes an entirely unexpected sound, somewhere between a gasp and a hiccup. She props herself up so that she can see his face. He looks like he’s straining to remain expressionless, his lips parted and his eyelids heavy, a crease beginning to form between his slanted eyebrows. She finds his obvious effort, the way she is slowly unraveling him, undeniably arousing.

He feels average and normal in her hand—she wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, having never looked so deeply into the anatomical specifics of a Vulcan below the waist. She wonders if this is how all Vulcans are, or if this part of Spock is just human. He certainly responds in a very human way when she strokes it, his fingers curling into the sheets, his breathing becoming quicker.

She pulls her hand out and sits back, tugging his pants down over his hips. After watching her struggle for a few seconds he pushes her aside, kicking off his shoes and letting his pants fall off the foot of the bed. She shifts backwards on the bed and he crawls towards her until he is kneeling between her legs, staring down at her. His pulse jumps in his throat. Nyota can’t entirely complain about the view, the pale glow of city lights illuminating the well-kept contours of his body. She’s surprised at how normal this feels. Without his clothes, Spock really is just a man, looking at her in a way other men have before. She rises to her knees before him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She kisses him gently this time, with slow, tender pecks.

When he pulls back they look at each other for a long moment, and the world seems to hush around them. She sees then, between their impatient needs, a hint of something else, something more. His hand rises to her face and slowly traces her jaw. He places his palm flat against her cheek, his fingertips at different angles on the bones in her face. She holds her breath, wondering if he’s going to try one of those Vulcan mind melds she had read about. After an extended pause, he blinks and moves his hand back behind her head instead, pulling the elastic from her ponytail. Her hair falls over her shoulders, filling the air with traces of fresh shampoo. His hand trails down her spine and fumbles with the clasp of her bra.

She smiles and reaches behind her back. “Vulcan women don’t wear these?”

“Not in my experience,” Spock replies, dropping his hand to rest on her hip.

She tosses the bra onto the floor. She tries to move towards him but he holds her elbows, leaning away from her. “Nyota,” he says, and she realizes suddenly that he’s addressed her by name. Is this the first time? She’s not sure. She likes the way he says it, pronouncing each syllable with precision. It’s odd to hear his voice, low and close in a dark room. It’s the only thing that connects the Spock kneeling naked before her with the tightly buttoned commander standing at the front of a lecture hall. “I have never… done this with a human.”

She bites her lip and rests her forearms on his shoulders, crossing her wrists behind his neck. “It can’t be that different, right?”

He surveys her body, lingering a moment on her bared breasts before looking back at her face. “You appear to be nearly anatomically identical to a Vulcan female.”

She nods. “You look pretty much the same. Except, you know… the color.”

“Considering the differences in our—”

She cuts him off with a kiss. “No more analysis. Let’s just… improvise.” she grasps him in her hand and he’s kissing her again, pushing her down into the bed, all of their urgency returning in a rush. He opens her legs, traces his hand between her thighs. A small sigh escapes her at the light touch, and his fingers come away slick. He slides forward, hooking his arm under one of her knees and positioning himself above her. “May I…” he whispers. She opens her eyes, and he’s looking at her in such a vulnerable way, his eyebrows drawn together in an expression that is as close to agony as his smooth features will allow. She didn’t realize how long she had been waiting for this until this moment. She tightens her knees around his hips and pulls him closer so that his tip just brushes against her.

“Yes,” she nods and he doesn’t waste a moment. He’s inside her and she’s hugging his neck tight and he’s nipping her collarbone and they’re moving against each other at a steady, escalating pace. Spock doesn’t make a sound, barely changes his breathing, but one of his hands grips her wrist like a vice, the other digging his fingers into her thigh. When the initial shock of skin on skin subsides, Nyota pushes him off, crawling out from under his body. He sits back on his heels, blinking in surprise. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but she turns her back to him, grabs the headboard in one hand and his thigh with the other, pulling him closer.

He doesn’t need to be told what she wants. He buries one hand into her hair and himself into her. She inhales sharply, her voice breaking from a gasp into a quick moan. She arches her back, and inches at an agonizing pace towards her orgasm. She whimpers, pressing back against him, and while she focuses on the mounting sensations, he slides his hand over hers. Her eyes snap open as she feels her pleasure augmented, her extremities flooded with warmth. She comes very quickly after that and when she cries out, she hears the smallest noise escape his lips, his fingers curling tightly around hers.

They’re still for a moment, Nyota’s forehead pressed against the wall behind the bed, their hands still connected on the headboard. She turns and sits against the pillows, panting. Though he remains quiet she can see his breath coming quicker in the rise and fall of his chest. “What would you like?” she asks when she catches her breath, her finger tracing his shaft.

His eyes dart between her hand and face as though he’s not sure what demands his attention more immediately. He tilts his head.

“Has nobody ever asked you that before?”

He shakes his head, very slightly. She raises her eyebrows, wondering what Vulcan women are like in bed. Demanding, it seems. Though she has no idea how many he has slept with, whether they were even Vulcan. She knows nothing about this aspect of his life. “Well, I’m asking. How would you like it?” She sits up, placing her free hand on his chest.

He stares at her like he’s considering this, calculating an algorithm for optimal pleasure in his mind. He wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her towards him, sitting back. She straddles him, lowering herself onto him as she moves to her knees. He presses his forehead against hers and says, in Vulcan “ _This is my preference.”_ She hears it now: the husky, melodic tone; she finally understands the difference between the language spoken in a classroom and the language spoken between lovers in the dark.

She rocks against him slowly. It’s strangely intimate for someone who keeps his emotions at an arms length. She can feel the subtle changes in his breathing against her cheek. His hands behind her neck and in the curve of her spine pull her closer with every motion. She searches for his fingers again, reaching behind her back until they touch. She feels it more strongly this time, the layering of his pleasure over hers like tense cords twisting into each other, stretching and threatening to snap.

 _“Is this adequate?”_ she whispers into his ear, quickening her pace. _“Satisfactory?”_

_“It is exceptional.”_

_“Shall I continue in this manner?”_

_“It would please me if you did.”_

She can feel herself coming closer to her orgasm, and his as well—it’s like they’re running through a dense wilderness towards a sunlit opening. A few more steps and—

“Nyota,” Spock chokes, his grip on her neck tightening. “If you continue—” She smothers his protests with a kiss and keeps going. The next few seconds melt together, her kiss turning into a moan in his mouth, a low groan vibrating in his throat so quietly, she almost doesn’t hear it. When its over he opens his eyes and they look at each other with the same expression of disbelief.

She lays her head on his shoulder, her nose nestling into the crook of his neck. She doesn’t know what to say. She feels dizzy and euphoric, but also immensely confused. He holds her body in a close embrace that he seems reluctant to break, and she finds that she is okay remaining in his arms. They sit there for a long time, without speaking or moving.

Finally, Spock disentangles himself from her and walks into the bathroom. Nyota lies on the bed, sweaty and breathless. She’s not sure what any of this means, or what she wants it to mean. She lets her eyes close, and when she opens them again, the cool light of early morning is already peeking through the curtains.

She can hear the distant sounds of traffic as New York begins to wake. Her head is pounding from dehydration. She’s covered in a blanket and nestled next to Spock, who is asleep facing her, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting on her stomach. A sudden panic rises in her chest. She carefully extracts herself from the bed, trying not to wake him as she tiptoes around the room, collecting her scattered clothing. When she’s dressed, she looks back. He hasn’t moved, still positioned as though she is lying beside him. She wonders if this is wrong of her, to leave him without saying goodbye, without even trying to talk about what just happened. She doesn’t have time to think about it, though. She has no missed calls on her comm, which means Sonia hasn’t come back to their room yet. She needs to hurry back before her friend returns with a thousand questions that Nyota does not know how to answer.

She ignores the impulse to crawl back in bed and curl up against Spock’s warm chest. She chooses not to acknowledge the part of her that knows, undoubtedly, how she got here in the first place, and why. She forces herself to turn her back and leave Spock to sleep alone.

* * *

_Aside_

Captain Pike walks into the diner to see Lady Amanda already sitting at a booth with a cup of tea. She waves, and he slides in across from her.

“Finally got a spare moment to catch you,” he says, reaching for the menu. “Happy First Contact.”

“This is what I love about New York—Earth meals at all hours! Happy First Contact, Chris. How have you been?”

Pike smiles. “Not bad at all. Ran into your son on the way here.”

“He’s still awake? That boy never sleeps!”

“We really can’t talk.”

The two of them chuckle. A waitress walks by and Pike orders a coffee.

“Maybe I should ask him to join us,” Amanda muses. “I think I will.” She reaches for her comm.

“Don’t.” Pike says sharply, looking her in the eyes. Amanda blinks, still holding her comm in hand. “Trust me,” he continues. “Not tonight.”

“Oh?” Amanda raises her eyebrows. “Well.”

“Well, indeed.”


	12. Spock Still Does Not Have an Adequate Strategy for Pursuing Cadet Uhura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I was out of the country for a while! Hope there are still some readers out there!

“Wasn’t sure you were going to make it, Commander.” Pike says with a wink as Spock joins him at the Starfleet shuttle bay at JFK airport. He is the last to arrive, on time to the second, for their low-speed flight to Iowa.

“I arrived precisely on time,” Spock observes, frowning at the rest of the crew, already assembled and ready to go. He still doesn’t quite understand human timeliness—he is always first to arrive at social gatherings and last to arrive at professional meetings, despite always being sure to arrive at the predetermined hour. He adjusted his behavior according to these practices during his first years on Earth, but today he could not help but linger in his lodgings that morning.

He woke alone, having slept more deeply than he had in some time. There was no evidence of the past night’s events besides the wrinkled sheet between his arms. He sat up, considered what had occurred in the fresh clarity of morning.

Kissing her was a terrible idea. Everything that followed was equally inadvisable. He sat against the headboard for a long time, bewildered by the entire scenario. After the first kiss he had really thought she might strike him, given the irate expression on her face. He had never expected the eagerness of her response. It had unhinged him, snapped open all the fastens he had kept on the part of him that wanted to devour her—the part he was just barely aware of until it was given the opportunity to act.

He did not know if this meant she returned his feelings. He had resisted the urge to mind meld with her—he had only ever melded in that way with T’Pring, and he had not done the proper research and preparation to attempt such a link with a human. He therefore had no idea what she was thinking. He had tried to stop and discuss it multiple times, but Nyota seemed very uninterested in talking and he could not find it in himself to insist, given the tempting alternative. He thought there would be plenty of time for all of that in the morning, but she was gone and he was alone and at a loss.

He entertained the idea that she may return or send him a transmission at some point that morning, so he had waited to leave until the last possible moment. He showered, dressed, meditated, but she did not come or send him a message of any kind.

Was that what humans refer to as a “one-night stand”? Many humans take sexual encounters much more lightly than Vulcans. For them it is a purely physical act, and thus much less intimate. He does not know Nyota’s stance on the matter. They had, of course, never broached such inappropriate subjects.

“You okay?” Pike asks Spock as they strap into their seats.

“In what sense?” Spock replies, snapping out of his reverie.

“You seem a bit out of it. Long night?” There is a teasing glimmer in Pike’s eyes. Spock looks away quickly.

“I am fine.” He folds his hands in his lap and keeps his gaze forward. He would prefer not to call attention to their encounter last night; while Captain Pike seems rather amused by the situation, Spock does not take intersections of personal and professional life lightly, despite the inevitability of it given their impending five-year mission.

“Alright folks,” Pike announces over the chatter in the cabin. “We’re going to have to surrender all our devices as soon as we get on site, so send your transmissions now.” In these final stages of construction, all of the technology on the _Enterprise_ is state-of-the-art and top secret. Starfleet is taking no chances with the Federation’s flagship.

Spock takes out his PADD to make sure he’s replied to any important messages from the Academy. He checks his comm—no missed calls. Perhaps she is still sleeping.

Or perhaps she is now regretting what had occurred between them. Perhaps she sees it as a momentary lapse in judgment. Had he coerced her in any way? Was she overly intoxicated? (It had not seemed that way in the moment, but he cannot be sure.) He has many questions, but he does not want to press her. He has never before done anything remotely like this, and he does not know what is the socially accepted procedure is.

At last, having no other option, knowing he will be out of communication for the next week and a half as soon as they land, Spock composes a concise transmission to send Nyota:

_Cdt. Uhura—_

_I will be out of communication for the next twelve days. I will not be able to answer any calls or receive any transmissions during this time. If you wish to be in contact, you may reach me when I return._

_Cdr. Spock_

This message conveys neither the strength of his feelings for her, nor the budding, though perhaps vain, hope of reciprocation that was kindled last night. It does not express how well he thought their bodies fit together, how he had cupped her sleeping face in his hands and kissed her forehead, her eyes, traced her cheek, jaw, ear with his fingers—how fortunate he considered himself, to be allowed to touch her in such a way. How right it felt to lie beside her, how forlorn it was to wake up without her.

How she never fails to make him behave illogically, and how readily, eagerly even, he succumbs to this behavior.

The sky outside the cabin windows is a crisp blue, the sun illuminating every ripple and thread in their uniforms. On that half-hour transport, shoulder-to-shoulder with Captain Pike and the Chief Engineer, his skin warmed by the morning light, Spock begins to realize that he might love Nyota.

The ride is quiet, the passengers still drowsy from the previous night’s revelry. They almost don’t notice the wistful expression in their First Officer’s eyes, how his demeanor seems to soften. The Chief Engineer had some questions for Spock that she intended to ask him during this ride, but she can’t quite bring herself to interrupt the tranquility that’s settled over Spock’s shoulders. They pass the trip in silence.

* * *

Spock would have really liked to spend his evening in his quarters with a book, but was practically ordered by Captain Pike to join him for an evening out. He walks up to the bar like a criminal escorted to his fate, flanked by the Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Commander Rollins, and Chief Medical Officer, Doctor Puri, lead by Captain Pike.

It is the same bar at which Captain Pike discovered James T. Kirk in the infamous bar brawl that resulted in the cadet’s admission to Starfleet Academy. It is a story repeated endlessly in the Academy, and one that Spock suspects will be repeated for many years after Cadet Kirk’s graduation.

Unlike most of Starfleet Academy, Spock himself is not overly concerned with Cadet Kirk, except for one minor annoyance—he attempted the Kobayashi Maru simulation in his first year, failed spectacularly, and then requested to take it again as soon as they would allow him. This would not be much of a problem, except that when he checked the roster for his simulation he noted that Cadet Uhura was among the only two cadets he requested to join him in the simulation twice.

This could be explained easily by the fact that Cadet Uhura is an exceptional student—anyone would be lucky to have her to participate in their simulation group—but the information resurfaces unwanted as they sit down with their drinks (Spock forcibly handed a glass of whiskey), and Captain Pike says, “I remember now! Where I heard the name Cadet Uhura before, and why she looked _so_ familiar.”

Her name catches Spock’s ears and he is instantly attentive.

“She was here that night. Not under my watch, but she was in a group of fresh recruits touring the site that day. This was back when they were still building the body, and you were up there.” Pike points to the ceiling in a gesture that Spock assumes refers to his time as Lieutenant on-board his last ship. Pike laughs at the recollection, shaking his head. “She was right in the middle of the scuffle. Delivered a blow or two herself, from what I read in the incident report later.”

This does not surprise Spock, given Cadet Uhura’s quick temper. He gingerly sips his whiskey, trying not to betray his distaste at the cloying flavor. He never did develop a taste for most Terran liquor—it neither intoxicates him nor appeals to his palette.

“Oh yeah, she was under my watch,” the Chief engineer says, pulling a slim cigar from the breast pocket of her jacket, biting off the end and spitting it into an ashtray she picked up from the center of the table.

“I do not believe you are permitted to partake in tobacco-related products indoors,” Spock points out politely as she pulls out a lighter.

Rollins places the ashtray before her and laughs, the cigar held in her teeth. “This is the Iowan countryside, Commander, not the Academy mess hall.” She lights the cigar and takes a few puffs, before pointing it towards another corner of the room, where a group of men are gathered over a game of poker, all smoking fat cigars.

Spock falls silent and traces his finger around the rim of his neat whiskey.

“You don’t get out much, do you Commander?” Puri says with a smirk, sipping a cloudy Andorian beverage.

“Not often.”

“Anyway, like I was saying,” Rollins says, waving the cigar closer to Spock’s face than he would like, “That whole group was with me.”

“You were here? Small world.” Pike raises his eyebrows.

“Well not _here_ here. I wasn’t feeling well so I was sleeping. Let me tell you, I never let them out alone again.” She shakes her head and calls over one of the staff to order another whiskey and coke.

“You left me to clean up the mess,” Pike says, eliciting a round of laughter from the other two. “What was the fight all about, anyway?”

 “Your boy was making some unwanted advances at Miss Uhura.”

Pike sighs and pinches his forehead. “That sounds like him.”

Spock’s fingers tighten around his glass. “Advances?” he asks coolly, keeping his eyes on the table.

The three officers exchange grins before Rollins says, “Yeah, you know—tried to start a conversation she wanted no part of. Happens at bars, from time to time.”

“Careful, Rollins, this might be Spock’s first time at a bar.” Puri winks.

“It is not.” Spock takes another sip to avoid meeting his companions’ gazes.

“Anyway, how do you know Cadet Uhura? I saw you two talking for a while at your promotion ceremony,” Puri asks, trying to give Spock a brief respite from their teasing.

“She is a former student,” Spock says at the same time as Captain Pike says, “She’s Spock’s girlfriend.”

Both Rollins and Puri raise their eyebrows, Rollins’ cigar falling slack in her mouth. Pike looks at Spock with a flash of amusement. “No need to be shy, Spock. There are no secrets in the crew. We’ve got five years for everything to surface.”

“She is not… my girlfriend.”

Puri takes a long sip of his drink in an attempt to conceal the look he is exchanging with Lieutenant Commander Rollins, who doesn’t even try to hide her bafflement.

“I just assumed—” Pike begins, but Spock cuts him off quickly.

“Vulcans do not lie. That is not the nature of my relationship with Cadet Uhura.” Finally deeming this entire outing to be an uncomfortable and unnecessary use of his time, he finishes the rest of his drink in a single gulp and stands up. “Thank you for the drink, Captain, but I would prefer to return to my quarters. Excuse me.”

Spock doesn’t wait for any further remarks on his personal life, and instead pushes between the close tables and walks out into the night.

“Spock!” A few paces from the bar, Spock turns to find Captain Pike pursuing him down the sidewalk. He stops.

“Can I help you, Captain?” he says, turning to face Pike’s approaching figure.

Captain Pike places his hands on his hips and sighs. “Come on, son. Let’s sit for a minute.”

Spock looks around. “There doesn’t appear to be any appropriate seating.”

Pike sits on the curb, his legs stretching into the desolate country road. He pats the ground beside him.

Spock hesitantly lowers himself to sit beside him, feeling slightly absurd with his legs straight out in front of him. Any passing traffic would drive right over his shins, but the street remains as black and empty as ever. In the distance he sees the glow of the _Enterprise’s_ construction site blooming in the night.

“You know, usually I have the opposite problem with my younger officers. Rollins for instance…” Pike laughs and shakes his head. “So have you figured out the game yet?”

Spock laces his fingers together in his lap. “I was not aware we were playing a game.”

“Do you think I take such an interest in teasing every officer about their personal life?” Pike winks. “I’m doing it intentionally.”

“I do not understand the purpose of this exercise.”

“You designed one of the most morally and emotionally complex simulations in the Academy curriculum—a requirement for anyone who wants to be a starship captain—and you can’t figure out that I’m _trying_ to provoke you? You’re going to be in command, Spock. I need to know that I can count on you no matter what.”

Spock looks at the ground sheepishly. “I apologize for not being more perceptive. As we have never served together, I did not know how you typically behaved with fellow officers on your ship.”

“Everyone has their weaknesses, Spock. Yours aren’t unsurmountable. Just… lighten up a little.” Pike gives Spock’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “You have to learn to roll with the punches. People are going to press your buttons, friend and foe alike—even buttons you didn’t know you had.”

Spock nods. “I will strive to be more adaptable.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be a great First Officer. The best in the ‘Fleet. Mark my words.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Pike looks out towards the _Enterprise_ —the distant premonition of their future together. “She’s really got you all wound up, huh?”

“Pardon?”

“Cadet Uhura. You’re touchy about her.”

Spock is silent a moment before saying, “Is this another ‘game’?”

Pike laughs. “No, honestly. As your captain, and your friend. You really like her.”

“It seems that I have been, to borrow your metaphor, discovering buttons I did not know I have.”

Pike stands up and brushes off his pants. “Good. You’ll be better for it.” He offers Spock his hand, and Spock takes it, despite not being in need of any assistance. “I’m going back in there, but you can go on home if you’d like. Something tells me you don’t have much of a taste for alcohol.”

“Not particularly.” They stand facing each other a moment and Spock clasps his hands behind his back. “Thank you, Captain. I am certain that serving under you will be a rewarding experience.”

Pike grins and tilts his head. “Get some rest, Commander. Tomorrow’s another day. And you know…” He begins walking backwards towards the bar with his hands in his pockets. “If she’s not your girlfriend yet, you should really get to fixing that. Might make your life easier.”

“I will take that into consideration. Good night, Captain.”

* * *

Spock does take it into consideration. He considers it in every spare moment—how to convey his feelings to Cadet Uhura and then ask after her feelings in return. The crew has begun to recognize the steady, calculating gaze on his face when he does.

While Captain Pike has more or less ceased commenting on the matter, Rollins and Puri have turned it into somewhat of an inside joke, always interrupting his thoughts with some quip like, “You thinking about your ‘not-girlfriend’, Commander?” or “What do you think that ‘non-girlfriend’ of yours doing right now?” and then laughing before Spock can even attempt a response. He has been taking Captain Pike’s advice and allowing such comments to pass without reaction. He is beginning to get accustomed to the friendly harassment unique to this crew—younger and more boisterous than his last, with insight into his personal life that he has never before allowed any shipmate.

If nothing else, the next five years are sure to be anything but dull.

By the end of their twelve-day stay, Spock still does not have an adequate strategy for pursuing Cadet Uhura, never having attempted anything of the sort. He had done some research and come up with such varying results, he was left more confused than when he began his inquiries. He does not dare ask any of his _Enterprise_ associates for counsel on the matter—the resulting harassment does not seem proportionate to any amount of advice they might be able to give.

As they settle into their air transport back to San Francisco, Spock turns on his comm and the communication function of his PADD. He has several missed calls from Cadet Uhura, but oddly, they are all time stamped between 0300 and 0400 that morning. Spock draws his eyebrows in and opens his messages on his PADD. The very first item is a long, alarming transmission from Cadet Uhura that makes Spock forgo returning to his quarters and book the first flight from San Francisco to a place he never expected he would visit—Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet.


	13. Commander Spock is here?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter!

“Nyota! Nyota!”

Nyota wakes to bright, unforgiving sunlight and Sonia slapping her repeatedly in the face. “W… what the hell?” she moans, trying to bury herself back into her pillow.

Nyota was almost convinced she was late for class before all the bits and pieces of the previous night started coming back to her.

Right. Spring break. Celebratory choir trip to Wrigley’s—of all the places in the galaxy. For the first few days, Nyota had managed to be moderate, despite the temptations of the Pleasure Planet. That’s what they call the hunk of rock they hollowed, dressed, and climate controlled to be a tropical destination for debauchery. It comes equipped with beaches—though virtual, the water tasting of pool chemicals rather than sea salt, the sand impossibly white—casinos, clubs, and the biggest red light district in the quadrant. It was described to Nyota as an off-planet hybrid of Amsterdam, Las Vegas, and Ibiza. Not her scene, that’s for sure. Up until last night, she had spent her trip holding back hair for vomiting friends, talking a first year out of gambling away all his credits to afford a particularly exotic prostitute, and making sure nobody took any suspicious drugs.

After the choir decided that they would make spring break plans together, there was a lengthy debate on where they would go. The seniors were pressing hard for Wrigley’s because this would be their last spring break before they were assigned and shipped off to be upstanding Starfleet officers, and besides that, most had other friends they wanted to meet up with there. The deciding vote, shockingly, came from Angie.

Last night they found out why—Jim Fucking Kirk. Yes, Nyota has decided to replace the “T” in his middle name for the much more appropriate “F”. Angie rallied them all to go to a particularly raucous club—a massive underground dance club and casino, with strippers of every species on platforms suspended from the ceiling. Even the most adventurous in their group looked a bit apprehensive.

Nyota had wanted to leave right away, and Jackson, who had turned quite pale when they entered, seemed to agree. Christie had barely set foot in the place before turning heel and leaving to meet up with some other friends. Sonia, on the other had, was thoroughly entertained. Even the lightest buzz made her think everything was hilarious, and this absurd place really set her off. While they waited on her to take a quick sweep of the spectacle and laugh her heart out before they left, who should join them but James T. Kirk, Gaila, Leonard McCoy, and a few others in their notorious group of attractive, devil-may-care Academy misfits.

It was clear that Gaila and Kirk were angling for a threesome with Angie (and would likely succeed), and the few in their group who remained merged together with theirs, buzzed enough to be friendly with just about anyone. (And though she hated to admit it, Kirk was rather well-liked by his fellow cadets, revered by the underclassmen, swooned over by men, women, and everything in between.)

Jackson was sending Nyota pleading looks and just as she announced that they were leaving, Kirk made a particularly pointed comment about the stick up Cadet Last-Name-Only’s ass, to which Nyota, a few drinks deep, retorted that she could out drink him any day. Which may have been true in her pre-Academy days, but with the rigor of training and her excessive course load, she was very, very rusty—no match for Kirk’s Midwestern farm-boy tolerance.

So after several noxious-looking shooters, Cardassian Sunrises, whisky shots, scorpion bowls, and God knows what else, the night had gone black and now Nyota is being cruelly dragged out of bed by her soon-to-be-ex-best friend.

“You’re going to thank me for this later!” Sonia groans, prying the pillow out of Nyota’s arms. “You have a visitor!”

“Tell them to leave a message.” Nyota says in a muffled voice, pressing her face into the mattress with both blanket and pillow stripped form her.

“What if I said it was Commander Spock?”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“No, really.”

Nyota hazards a peek from between tangled locks of hair. “Bullshit.”

“I swear, Nyota. The lobby just called to say there’s a Commander Spock looking for you. I went to check and it’s not a joke—he’s actually there.”

Nyota jumps up to her hands and knees, whipping her hair out of her face. “ _What?_ Where’s my PADD?”

Sonia raises her eyebrows and barely suppresses a giggle. “Oh my God, you really don’t remember _anything_ from last night, do you?”

“Um… not since Gaila was screwing us all out of credits at blackjack while feeling up Angie under the table.”

“Yeah, that explains why you got so belligerent after that.” Sonia sits on the edge of the bed. “The good news is, we left soon after. The bad news is you tried to make two comm calls on the walk back—actually, three, but it was past 3 AM here and on Earth, so I had to wrestle your comm out of your hand and confiscate it.”

“ _No_.”

“And then you sat on the balcony crafting an extremely long transmission to God-knows-who while I put Jackson to bed—poor thing, McCoy took a liking to him and he had a bit more whiskey than he could stomach, lost his ID card and everything—and when I got back you started screaming about ‘it’s been twelve days already so how come he hasn’t called or sent a single transmission’ and then you cussed out this unnamed person in like, ten different languages, and threw your PADD off the balcony.”

“ _Shit_.”

“But don’t worry, because I’m the best friend in the world and I went out at 4 AM, picked up all the pieces, and left them in Jackson’s room with a note. It’s probably nothing he can’t fix, once he wakes up. If he wakes up.” Sonia massages her forehead. “Anyway, by the time I got back, you were passed out on the floor. I guess you made it to your bed at some point in the night.”

“Okay, first off, I love you.” Nyota crawls across the bed and wraps her arms around Sonia.

“I think it’s just karma for throwing up on you that first night.”

“Secondly, _shit, shit—,_ “ Nyota fills in with a dozen more swear words in a handful of languages.

“So.” Sonia reaches into the drawer between their beds and pulls out Nyota’s comm. “Are _you_ gong to tell me why you were calling Commander Spock at 3 AM, or should I go ask him?”

Nyota bites her lip. Truthfully, she has not told anyone about what happened between her and Commander Spock. She tells herself that this is for their careers, that if something like this came to light, people would begin suspecting there was something going on between them while he was still her instructor. Or maybe it would affect her chances at getting an _Enterprise_ assignment.

But if she’s being completely honest it’s because she’s not sure what exactly happened that night. Or what will happen next. She snatches the comm out of Sonia’s hand.

“It’s a long story. I think I’d better get dressed and see what the hell he’s doing here.”

“ _Nyota_ you owe me a thousand explanations.” Sonia calls after her as she runs into the shower.

* * *

The lift opens and who should be in it but Nyota’s current (and often) least favorite person, hair disheveled, still in the same clothing from the previous night.

“Good morning, Uhura. How was _your_ night?”

Nyota can tell from Kirk’s lopsided grin that his night went exactly as planned. She gets into the lift without responding, standing as far from his as possible.

“Did you have a good time?”

“You’re on my shit list, Kirk.”

“I’m just happy to be on any list of yours. Plus, I didn’t _ask_ you to match me drink for drink.”

Nyota doesn’t respond because he’s right.

“You’re more fun than I expected.” Kirk laughs. “I really thought you were going to punch Gaila after she won that last game of blackjack.”

“Can you not? We are _not_ friends.”

The lift doors open and Nyota sees Spock sitting in a chair in the lobby, a small travel bag balanced awkwardly in his lap—and Spock sees Nyota, his eyes flicking from her to Kirk and then to the floor. She walks out of the lift and Kirk follows.

“Well, friends or not, it was a fine time. Thanks for a good night, Uhura. Maybe next time I’ll get you drunk enough to tell me your first name.” Kirk winks that bad boy wink that everyone is so smitten with, and Nyota thinks she might gag. She’s grateful when he walks out of the hotel without waiting for a response.

She walks up to Spock, who looks out of place in his black plainclothes in the midst of all the bright dresses and beachwear trickling through the lobby. He stands up quickly, lifting his bag onto his shoulder.

“Commander… what are you doing here?”

“I received your transmission. The content was… alarming. It compelled me to visit you in person.” The way he’s looking at her is apprehensive, his speech littered with awkward pauses that seem unlike him. He falls silent, and she knows he’s waiting for her to acknowledge something or the other about the message, but she has no idea where to begin.

“Um… about that.” She sighs. Better to just say it outright. “Sir, I… don’t have any recollection of what I sent you in that transmission. My PADD is currently being repaired and last night I was…” she trails off, her face turning hot.

Spock looks around, as though scanning the atmosphere of the hotel. “I see.”

Nyota bites her lip. “Did you come here to give a reprimand and drag me back to the Academy for disciplinary action?”

Spock blinks. “Ah, no. I… Then, I… Perhaps I should…” his eyes are on the floor again, then his bag, then the front door, and he looks so lost and maybe even a little wounded that she starts to reach for him, saying “Wait—” but stops short, her hand hovering between them because she doesn’t know which part of him she might be allowed to touch—his hand, his shoulder, his cheek? The last time they saw each other, their foreheads pressed together in that dark room, his breath whispering in her ear, seems like a faraway dream.

“ _Commander Spock?_ ” A shocked voice calls out.

Nyota quickly pulls her hand back, clenching it at her side as Christie, Angie, and several other members of the choir cross the lobby to greet them.

“What are _you_ doing here?” A first-year boy asks, hardly containing his awe.

Spock looks at Nyota for a moment before turning to them. “I… had some leisure time.”

“So you came _here?_ ” Angie sputters, blinking rapidly.

“I have never visited. I was told it is a destination many humans enjoy in their leisure. It sounded…” he looks around the room “… fascinating.”

“How long are you visiting for?” Angie asks, looking amused.

Spock pauses, glances at Nyota again and then says, “The night.”

Christie shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest with a laugh. “I’m afraid it might not be to your liking. But we’d be happy to show you some of the… less fascinating, but maybe more pleasant sights.” She cocks an eyebrow at her companions. “I’m sure _you all_ could use a more low-key day.”

There are some chuckles and murmurs of agreement.

“I do not want to interfere in your recess.” Spock says, tucking his hands behind his back. “I am sure that having a superior officer accompany you might be burdensome.”

 “Oh, you’re not half as intimidating without your uniform, Commander. It’ll force us to behave a little for a day.”

A long silence passes, with the group of cadets looking expectantly at Spock, who just looks baffled. Nyota presses her lips together to suppress a laugh—she doubts that Spock ever expected any cadets to be so eager to spend time with him, not with the way he carried on in his classes, so purposefully detached.

“What did you have in mind?” he says at last.

“Oh, the caves!” one of the cadets at the back of the group pipes up.

There are some exclamations of agreement among the group.

“Caves?” Nyota asks, feeling a bit curious herself.

“Yeah, there are some caves dug out by the beach nearby, made from the natural ore of the asteroid. They filled it with an underground pond and some beautifully kept bioluminescent organisms.” Angie, a xenobiologist, explains, her eyes lighting up. “It took them years to find the right balance of different species from planets all over the galaxy that would live harmoniously there. But its amazing.”

Spock nods. “That does indeed sound pleasant. What time would you like to rendezvous for this outing?”

One of the cadets snickers, saying, “I feel like we’re about to go on a training mission.”

“How’s 1300?” Christie suggests, elbowing her. “You can get settled, and we can go eat brunch.”

He nods. “That will be acceptable.”

“Oh, Nyota, where’s Jackson’s room?” Angie turns to Nyota as the others start to file out. She pulls a card out of her pocket. “He dropped his ID last night. Gaila found it at the blackjack table. You guys all left together, right?”

“Oh, yeah.” Nyota takes the card. “I’ll just give it to him. I need to remind him to fix my PADD anyway.”

“Oh my god, right!” Angie laughs. “I saw Sonia picking up all the pieces when we were coming in last night. She was _so_ pissed.”

“I _know_.” Nyota says sheepishly, shaking her head. “I’m so embarrassed.”

Angie shrugs. “We’ve all done worse on this trip, trust me. Anyway, thanks, I’ve gotta catch up with them.” She waves and starts jogging across the lobby. “See you later Commander!” she calls over her shoulder at the door.

They’re alone again, and Spock’s expression looks even tighter than before. Nyota begins to fidget under his gaze. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to get dragged into all these antics.”

“I came of my own free will. And these caves they described sound intriguing.” Despite these words, his voice sounds slightly colder.

“But you must be busy—”

“I have the next two days off.”

“Oh. Well…” Nyota looks down.

“I will inquire about an available room, then.”

“Right.”

“And you should return that to… Cadet Hunt.” Spock looks away when he says his name.

“Right,” she says quickly, not sure how to interpret his change in demeanor. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

* * *

Sonia and Nyota burst into Jackson’s room, flinging the heavy curtains open. His roommate is gone already, part of the brunch party that left earlier, and he cries out like a wounded animal at the light flooding the the room.

“Jackson, this is an _emergency_ —” Sonia throws an extra hangover hypo at him and pulls the blankets off. “You need to fix Nyota’s PADD _now_.”

Jackson crawls towards the hypo at the foot of his bed. “What… the fuck.” Is all he manages.

Nyota kneels by the bed and rests her chin on the edge, near Jackson’s elbow. “ _Please_. I’ll edit any essay for you when we get back, no matter how long—that’s an open promise.”

Jackson presses the hypo into his arm and rolls onto his side. Things had gotten less weird between them in the past week. Sonia had admitted that Jackson did manage to get laid on First Contact and it was really helping speed the recovery process after their break up. Then, two nights ago, when he had gotten very drunk and dragged Nyota out of the bar for late night pizza, he admitted tearfully over a greasy slice of pepperoni that he missed being friends and he was willing to be over it if she would just edit his Andorian literature paper for him. The next morning, they met for breakfast and had a good laugh about the whole night and agreed to try going back to the way things were before. He seems to be reconsidering this at the moment though, because he squeezes his eyes shut and says, “Rewind. Your PADD is broken?”

Sonia gestures to the remains of the PADD on the bedside table. Jackson lets out a long whistle. Sonia crosses her arms. “Come on, I know you carry that little toolkit around with you everywhere.”

“Yeah, but… that’ll take like, half a day.”

“Well unless you’re jumping to go spelunking with Commander Spock, I don’t see any other foreseeable plans for you.”

“ _Commander Spock is here?!_ ” Jackson is rubbing his eyes now, as if considering the possibility that this whole encounter might be an absurd dream.

“Nyota sent him a very drunk transmission while she was black out last night and he appeared this morning, so we need to know what the _hell_ she wrote to him ASAP.”

Jackson blinks before breaking into laughter. “You sent the _Commander_ a drunk subspace love letter?”

Nyota buries her face in the bed. “ _Shut up_. And I don’t know if it was a love letter. He said it was ‘alarming’.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t dragged you back to headquarters yet.” Jackson massages his temples but manages to sit up. The hypo is kicking in.

“No, he hasn’t. Instead he’s here. Hanging out with us.” Sonia says with a smirk, and both she and Jackson turn to Nyota with raised eyebrows.

Nyota shrugs and says, “I’m sure there’s an explanation for this. But it’s on that.” Nyota points to her PADD, thankful that they are both still oblivious of what happened the night of First Contact.

Jackson leans over to assess the damage. He sighs. “You owe me.”

* * *

By the time their group finds their way into the lobby, Spock is already sitting in one of the chairs, hands folded in his lap. Nyota almost smiles, knowing that he must have arrived at 1300 on the dot. They check out some gear from the lobby and pile into one of the public buses that take them to the beach where the caves are located.

When they arrive they find that they’re the only large group looking to explore the caves. They quickly realize the destination is mostly intended for couples looking for a romantic adventure.

Christie leads the charge with a map, and they sink into the dense black of the caves, their flashlights leaving halos of light in the darkness. Even as hung over as they are, the cadets are quick and sharp. Trained to be fit in any circumstance, they cover ground efficiently, chatting and laughing along the journey.

Spock tells everyone about his recent visit to Iowa, and a couple of the cadets interrogate Spock about the _Enterprise’s_ construction. He tells them what he can, explaining that much of the technology is classified, due to its advanced nature. This elicits some excited gasps from all of the cadets as they try to imagine what the flagship might be equipped with. Nyota gets the sense that Spock might be having a good time. He seems to enjoy their genuine interest, their eagerness. She thinks that privately, behind his calm exterior, he might be excited as well. Serving as First Officer on the Federation flagship is no small thing.

After a while, the conversation turns, and Spock falls back from the group to where Nyota is, walking at an easy pace with Sonia at the rear. Sonia, watching him approach, suddenly becomes very interested in asking where Christie wound up the night before, and pushes forward to talk to her at the head of the group.

“Enjoying yourself, Commander?” Nyota asks as they fall into step.

“Quite,” Spock replies.

Unconsciously, they both slow, letting a gap form between themselves and their companions.

“You like them, don’t you?” Nyota teases. “I never expected that.”

“I do not socialize often with humans, particularly cadets, as they often have an ulterior motive in pursuing me outside of lecture.” Spock pauses and gazes into the darkness, where they can still hear the other cadets scuffling and laughter, their ankles just in their flashlights’ range. “However, I find these cadets to be sincere and amiable. Conversing with them is pleasant.”

Nyota chuckles a little. “Yeah, they’re a good group. Especially the first years, so eager. The Academy hasn’t gotten them jaded yet.” She elbows him lightly. “You were pretty suspicious of me when I tried to talk to you outside of class.”

“Though I did discover your genuine academic interest further into the semester, I did have my reservations.” Spock admits. “Cadets who sit in the front row often have ulterior motives.”

“What, did you not consider that I might’ve just been interested in getting to know you?”

Spock stops walking, the beam from his flashlight falling to the floor.

Nyota turns around, her flashlight illuminating his chest and neck. She keeps it low, not wanting to hurt his eyes. “What?”

“Cadet Uhura, I understand that humans often take lightly matters that Vulcans consider to be more meaningful, but I would implore you not to expect the same from me.”

Nyota places her free hand on her hip. “Do you really still think I was trying to suck up for a good grade?”

“I was not referring to academics.”

Nyota pauses, and they suddenly realize that it’s eerily quiet. Spock raises his flashlight. The cave ahead of them is empty and silent.

“What the hell?” Nyota says and they hurry forward. There’s a fork in the cave, both passages leading deeper underground. They try to listen, but the voices of their companions have already been swallowed by the darkness. “Shit. Should we just wait here?”

“I believe we should take the right passage.” Spock says. “I had the opportunity to glance at the map before we came in.”

Nyota shines the flashlight into the right tunnel, but sees nothing. “Well, let’s hurry.” They walk forward at a quicker pace, holding the wall as the tunnel angles into a steep decline.

They walk in silence for a few moments before Nyota says, “What were you referring to, then?”

“I do not appreciate being… toyed with.”

“ _Toyed_ with?”

“Humans often assume that because we do not express our emotions, Vulcans do not experience them. It is quite the opposite.” Nyota can’t see Spock’s face but his voice sounds strained. “Therefore I would request that you cease your contradictory actions towards me. Cadet Kirk and Cadet Hunt may be accustomed to this type of behavior, but I am not.”

“ _Kirk?”_ Nyota suddenly realizes the reason why Spock has seemed so awkward this entire day. “Oh my God, do you think I’m just sleeping with the whole Academy? I thought you didn’t make assumptions, _Commander_.” Spock doesn’t have a reply for this. Nyota walks faster, and she can hear him falling slightly behind. She honestly can’t believe his audacity, showing up here with unfounded accusations when _he_ was the one who disappeared after First Contact without as much as an acknowledging word. “And whatever you may say about Vulcan feelings, you have never _once_ told me yours. What am I supposed to think? Half the time I feel like you don’t _like_ me!”

“That is inaccurate.” His response is quick, steady.

“You never even gave me the chance to tell you mine.” The cave opens up a little, and Nyota is not sure whether the tunnel is getting brighter or her eyes are adjusting to the total darkness as she feels her way through. “You left before I even woke up.”

“If you recall, it is _you_ who left before _I_ woke.”

Nyota feels the blood rush to her face even in the dark. He’s right, of course. She had panicked and left as soon as she woke up. Later, after catching a couple more hours in her bunk, she regretted this. She thought there was a conversation that needed to be had, that there was surely _something_ that needed to be said. She went to check her transmissions, maybe write him a message. She had a brief, absurd fantasy of eating breakfast with him at some diner in New York City, let herself wonder what he might order. Fruit, probably. Toast, maybe. But by then, he was already gone and the only company she would have that morning was two cold lines announcing his absence.

“Why did you come here, Spock?” She doesn’t call him by his title this time. She is not asking the officer of Starfleet who explained the semester’s syllabus without once glancing in her direction. She is asking the little boy who followed her down a tree-lined path, away from where they were expected and assumed to remain, his eyes not leaving her for a second.

“The transmission you sent me last night… it made me believe that I should see you.”

Nyota stops, and feels Spock stop as well, standing close behind her. The heat from his body is stark against the cold damp of the cave. “What did I say?” she asks, her voice falling to a hushed murmur.

“You should not be liable for any statements you made while intoxicated. You were not lucid, and therefore you should not concern yourself with what might have been said.”

She turns around and reaches forward until her palm rests on the warm fabric on his chest. “What if I want to be liable?”

He doesn’t respond right away. His fingers tentatively find her wrist, smooth and dry against her skin. “I would rather hear it in person. What would you say now?” His voice is low now as well, and Nyota’s stomach clenches with a flurry of butterflies. Strange, how honest her body is in the dark, even with his face reduced to a grayish outline. She can fit his features perfectly into his silhouette, and every piece makes her breath come short. Her flashlight slips in her hand, pointing the beam at their feet. They are standing close. In just one step, she could fit her toes between his. She almost takes it.

“There you guys are!”

Nyota quickly steps backwards, just in time as they’re suddenly hit with a sprinkle of flashlight beams. Nyota points her flashlight further up the cave and finds Christie and Sonia leading the group towards them.

“Sorry, we got caught up chatting and took a wrong turn,” Christie says, shrugging. “But it looks like you guys got here first.”

“Hm?” Nyota squints.

“What, didn’t you notice?” Sonia smirks, pointing behind their shoulders. “We’re here.” She clicks her flashlight off. Everyone in the group follows suit and they realize that a steady greenish glow is emanating from an opening just a few feet from Nyota and Spock.

They climb through one by one, out into a wide, high ceilinged chamber coated in a spray of luminescent organisms. Unlike on Earth, they come in a multitude of fluorescent hues, swirls of pink, orange and blue mixed in with the green. The pond, stretching from one end of the chamber to the other, shimmers with its own light. For a moment, they are speechless.

If anyone notices Nyota’s hand brush Spock’s in a touch that looks almost accidental, they don’t say anything. When their fingers connect, she feels a ripple of awe, then a spark of surprise, followed by a flood of affection. He looks down at her with that same apprehensive, inquisitive gaze.

“I did _not_ sleep with Kirk,” she says quietly, hidden underneath Angie’s voice, who is now pointing out some of the organisms she recognizes. “And I am not sleeping with Jackson, either.”

With that she steps away and rejoins Sonia, and they don’t speak again for the remainder of the afternoon.

* * *

When they return to the hotel, Nyota beelines it to Jackson’s room with the best takeout she could find nearby.

“Good timing,” he says as he opens the door, taking the takeout from her hand. “I was just getting hungry.” He peeks inside the bag. “Excellent.”

He places the bag on the table across from his bed and starts taking containers of food out and examining them. Nyota looks around the hotel room. Jackson’s tools are scattered on the floor between the table and the bed. Her PADD is sitting at the center of the clutter, the screen dark.

“Well?” Nyota asks anxously.

Jackson forks some food into his mouth straight out of the container and leans against table with a slow nod. Nyota watches him chew at what feels like an excruciatingly slow pace.

“First of all, I managed to fix it. _Barely_. And you should be eternally grateful.” He takes another bite and chews as Nyota lets out a sigh of relief. He swallows and points his fork at Nyota. “Secondly, of all the cadets and commanders in the ‘Fleet, I did _not_ think that the ones to fraternize would be Cadet Uhura and Commander Spock.” He raises his eyebrows and Uhura turns a terrible shade of violet, diving to the floor for her PADD.

“Oh my God, _what did I say_?” she hisses, scrambling to turn it on.

“I wasn’t trying to be nosy. It was just open to the message as soon as it came on.”

Which is true, because there it is. Nyota reads it quickly, and then rereads it just to be sure. She sets down the PADD. Jackson has opened the curtains all the way, revealing the glass door out to his balcony. The afternoon enters the room in great blocks of warm light. She’s not really sure what to say—not to Jackson, nor to Spock.

“Can you just. Keep this between us for now?” Nyota asks quietly.

“Obviously,” Jackson says with a laugh.

“I just want to die.”

“Nyota.” Jackson sits down on the ground beside her, crossing his legs. “You know, he still came. He read that absurd, drunken ramble, and actually got on a shuttle and came. That means something. And I think you know what.”

Nyota doesn’t have a response because she knows he’s right—has had a feeling about this since she saw Spock standing in the lobby, the way his eyes looked when she walked up to him. She just doesn’t know how things even became like this, what to say when she sees him.

Nyota’s comm rings, cutting through the silence. It’s Sonia.

“Dinner? Yeah, sure. Will… will the commander be there?”

Jackson watches her carefully, and when their eyes meet he smiles a little, knowing what Sonia’s response must have been.

“I’ve gotta go.” Nyota stands up, clutching her PADD at her side.

Jackson nods. “Maybe I’ll see you later, maybe not?” he smirks, raising an eyebrow.

Nyota blushes but doesn’t reply, instead just walks towards the door.

“Hey, Nyota,” Jackson calls when she reaches the threshold.

“Hm?”

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

She frowns. “No.”

He laughs. “I thought you’d say that.”


	14. She Has Altered Him

_Comaneer PSck,_

_Tish is sptupid and I seroiuls can’t blieve I’m writong this transmisdoin but its benn oerr a week and I sitl havnet heard froj you anf you wo’nt pick up your comm dna I just want to heay uour voice. I hatr that it boghers me so much whne I cant see you I jist got so ussd to your face wgich is rrally not a bad fave to look at yoir eyes espcialyy are vrry nice but anywy the poknt beibg even though youwr na anyoing, stuppid logcial asshoe  iv’e lterally been thiknign abougt uou for 15 yars and now I just keep thnkng aobut you that nught and god it was jist very good and I’s raolly like to do it again nad I just wbat to seebyou becaseu gonesty, if I’n realhy being comp;lkedy honst. i thbk that  i ;pbr you. And I wabt to see you rigjft npwo. I’m on wrglys’ Pleasre planet at the white Snads resort. Cvome fine me._

_Toyrs,  
Nyora_

_* * *_

Spock stands on the balcony of his hotel room and surveys the view. The landscape, though artificial, is pleasant. The hotel adjoins a beach with white sand and a bright teal sea modeled after Earth’s equatorial Pacific Ocean. The sun is low, the sky already beginning to turn rich, warm colors similar to a Vulcan sunset. Despite the picturesque setting, Spock is fairly certain that coming here was a mistake.

Nyota’s message is open on his PADD, held in both hands. He was so bewildered, so puzzled by it—and, he dares to admit, perhaps slightly hopeful—that he thought it may be imperative to see her right away, as she had implored repeatedly in the message. Given the wholly uncharacteristic number of misspellings and lack of punctuation, he thought at first that she might truly be in danger, perhaps very ill. Yet upon arriving, he found himself once again in error. Humiliated, even.

He scrutinizes a line of the transmission that gave him pause when he first read it. He thinks of the cool touch of her palm against his chest in the dark cave, the shadows on her chin quivering as she spoke.

_i ;pbr you._

Using the human standard keyboard (which they refer to as “QWERTY”), an antiquated system that humans refuse to abandon, if Spock were to shift over the finger positions of the right hand by one key, the sentence would read: _I love you._

Far-fetched, he tells himself. A gross assumption. A symptom of his human instinct to hope for a favorable outcome, even when it is unlikely. The past few months have made him soft.

He is fairly certain that meeting Nyota at the Academy began a divergence from his expectations for himself. No, that is inaccurate. The first time they met at all, so many years ago, something changed. His mother had seen it then.

Following that trip to Earth he began to play his ka’athyra in her garden as soon as weather permitted. He recalls very clearly one evening after his lessons, when the sky began to look just as Wrigley’s holographic one does now, his mother kneeling by a bed of budding succulents. She turned, her ivory scarf fluttering in the slight breeze, and said, “You’ve been playing outside often lately.”

“Fresh air stimulates the neural pathways.” A fact, though likely not the answer she was looking for. At that age, Spock did not like answering his mother’s indirect questions; implication was another human affectation he wished to be rid of.

She squinted. “Is that a new song you’re learning?”

“No,” he said, and after a moment’s hesitation, added, “It is an improvisation.”

His mother smiled and said, “It’s beautiful,” and he felt his chest tighten with a flash of delight that he pushed quickly.

He now wishes he had smiled then. He is certain it would have made his mother happy.

Nyota left her mark on him. Often while walking through Shi’Kahr on a warm night, the air thick with music and spices, he thought of her. Saw her back leading him down the path. He was reminded of this when he followed her through the caves. He feels like he is always one step behind her.

What had been his plan? Study, serve, observe. Be an exceptional officer. Utilize his intellect for the greater good of the Federation. Perhaps cultivate stimulating professional relationships with fellow officers. Nowhere in his plan was travelling on a whim to a planet dedicated to all forms of excess, chasing a cadet like a lost sehlat cub.

He tries to meditate but is unable to settle his acute mortification, and soon abandons the pursuit and decides to arrive at their dinner venue early.

As expected, none of the cadets he had agreed to meet with for dinner have arrived. The cuisine is Vulcan (their suggestion, not his), and the tables are set on a patio framed with red and orange curtains. They are sheer, unlike real Vulcan textiles, which are meant to block out the unforgiving sun. From the tables there is a clear view of the beach. There is a bar along the back, which would also not be found in a Vulcan restaurant, but seems to be a requirement of every establishment on the little planet. Finding no other occupation, he sits at the bar.

The woman at the bar, dressed in Vulcan robes with the traditional sharp haircut, is not Vulcan. She seems slightly shocked to see him, his hands folded neatly on the counter.

“H-hello.” She begins to raise her hand in a salute, but thinks better of it and tucks her hands behind her back, blushing. “How can I help you?”

Spock pauses, runs his gaze along the bottles of alcohol, and says finally, “Water, please.”

The woman returns a few moments later with a glass packed with more ice than water. Spock runs his finger once along the rim but does not take a sip. He prefers his water to be a more reasonable temperature.

“I am _not_ an escort!” The woman beside him slams her half-empty drink onto the bar. A man sitting beside her, who had been speaking to her in a low voice jumps slightly.

After blinking a few times, he grins. “Is this the kind of game you like to play? I can be into that.”

The woman crosses her arms and leans away. “This is not a _game_. I won’t repeat myself.”

“Oh, come on. An Orion female on Wrigley’s?” The man begins leaning in once more. “Let’s continue this game in my room.”

Spock has now realized that the Orion woman sitting next to him is a cadet who was in a computer science course he taught last year. This man is being disrespectful, at best. He stands up. “Sir, I would implore you to desist your harassment of this cadet.”

“Cadet?” The man surveys Spock. His face is flushed and there is a film of sweat on his brow. Clear signs of inebriation. “I didn’t know they actually got a real Vulcan to work here.”

The Orion cadet stifles her laughter poorly.

“I am a patron of this establishment, not an employee. I am Commander Spock of the Federation Starfleet.” Spock cocks an eyebrow. “And this cadet is in my charge. Therefore, I would recommend that you desist.”

The man is momentarily lost for words and the cadet has now ceased her attempt at stifling her laughter, and is openly giggling. “S-sorry,” he manages to mutter before hastily snatching up his drink and moving to an open seat at the other end of the bar.

“Oh, Commander. So intimidating.” The cadet—he recalls that her name is Gaila—crosses her arms and turns in her seat to face him. “Thank you. Though, I don’t remember being in your _charge_.”

Spock resumes his seat. “Given that you are a cadet of Starfleet and I am your superior officer, technically you are at all times in my charge.”

Gaila sips her drink. “Well, don’t expect me to behave.”

Ah, yes. Spock recalls that this cadet was rather audacious in class. Moreover, he had to give her a demerit once when he walked in on her engaged in sexual activity with another cadet in the computer lab late one night.

“You are currently off duty, and therefore allowed to spend your time as you wish, as long as you act with the integrity expected of all Starfleet personnel.”

Gaila snorts. “Yes _sir_.” She squints at Spock for a moment before saying, “Anyway, what are _you_ doing here? I wouldn’t expect you to enjoy this sort of place.”

“It is important to cultivate diverse experiences.”

She smirks. “Nothing to do with Cadet Uhura being here?”

Spock can feel his lips tighten. He takes a sip of his water at last. It hurts his teeth. “What do you imply, cadet?”

“We’re roommates, so I know _all_ about you.”

“’All’?” He repeats. “I doubt that.”

“Humans are strange,” Gaila observes after a pause. “You must know that already.”

“They can be, at times.”

“My roommate always talks about how much she dislikes many things you do. She complains incessantly.”

Spock frowns.

“ _But_ she leaps at the chance to see you, cried and slept for almost a day when you were injured—which is very odd for her, I can assure you—and runs to the practice rooms with that silly instrument whenever she can.”

Spock does not know how to respond to this. He is unsure what her conclusion about Nyota’s opinion of him may be.

“So I was surprised, but also not surprised, when I was in a cab on my way to a very nice cadet’s lodgings the night of First Contact and saw something quite peculiar.”

Spock’s hand tightens around his glass. He is beginning to question the principles of statistics, as he seems constantly caught in astronomically unlikely scenarios. He does not betray any concern, as it has not been conclusively stated that Cadet Gaila witnessed the particular moment he is thinking of.

“Now, I only caught the briefest glimpse and thought, how unlikely. I mean, you’re hard to miss—the only Vulcan in Starfleet uniform—but what would Nyota be doing in New York on First Contact? She’s far too boring for that sort of thing.”

Gaila’s narration reminds Spock horrifically of his mother’s: drawn out with the intent of torment.

“But who would I find stealing back into cadet lodgings the next morning, in the same clothes as the previous night, just as I was leaving? My dull roommate with a face that told me immediately that she was caught doing something uncharacteristically interesting.”

Round-about, but clear. Spock swallows another sip of water.

“Oh, look at you. A Vulcan drinking water cold as that? You must be so very nervous.”

Spock sets down his glass quickly. “Cadet, I find this conversation to be inappropriate.”

“But I do adore seeing you sweat.” Gaila leans forward on her elbows and scrunches her face, her red curls trembling with the movement.

“I am not perspiring.”

“Come on, you know what I mean. Now if you—”

“Gaila!”

Spock is not sure whether he is relieved or alarmed to hear Nyota’s voice.

Nyota in a white dress with orange flowers, radiant in the gold light of waning day. Spock recalls a desert lily that bloomed surprisingly early, alone in his mother’s green garden. He wants to hold her face in the way he had cupped that pale blue flower in his hand, the stem caught between his fingers. He tries to train his eyes onto a single spot, to stop them from wandering along Nyota’s form, because he is acutely aware of Gaila watching him with raised eyebrows.

Nyota walks up hurriedly, her gaze shifting from his face to Gaila’s and then back again several times. Her cheeks are tinged slightly reddish and he is not sure if it is from the warm air or the human physical response to embarrassment. “Gaila, are you giving the commander a hard time? He’s a superior officer, if you recall?” Her hands are on her hips.

“Don’t you forget sometimes, too?” Gaila winks and downs the rest of her drink. Nyota blushes and her arms fall against her sides. She is spared a response because Angie joins them, quickly explaining that Kirk and McCoy left early. “To _study_ ,” she groans, rolling her eyes.

As the two girls continue their conversation, Spock hazards a glance towards Nyota to find her already watching him. Her body language is more closed than usual, her head slightly bowed, one arm crossed over her body. A curious pose for someone who always holds herself upright. He can’t help but wonder, once more, why she called him here in her intoxicated ramblings the previous night. It was such a puzzling mixture of positive and negative sentiments he was not sure what the overall tone of message was. She certainly seemed upset.

Yet as seems to be the mode of the day, he is not able to ask about it and they cannot continue their conversation because soon, more cadets arrive. The likelihood of finding a moment of privacy becomes increasingly low.

When they are seated for their meal, after a moment’s hesitation, Spock sits beside Nyota. She gives him a sidelong glance but says nothing of it. Gaila, seated across the table from him, grins. “So honored that you’ve chosen to sit across form me, Commander.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Your company is always a pleasure, Cadet Gaila,” he replies drily. She is teasing him, that is apparent. Through the course of their meal, she directs a number of such quips in his direction, which he expertly deflects. His time with the new _Enterprise_ crew has slowly built his immunity to these attempts at provoking an emotional response from him.

Nyota, however, engages everyone else at the table in conversation excepting him until Gaila excuses herself to use the restroom when Angie stands up to do the same. They do not return for some time, and finally Nyota mutters, “She’s flirting with you.”

“Pardon?” Spock says, surprised to be addressed by her. He was fairly convinced they would conclude their meal without once speaking.

“Gaila.” Nyota traces her spoon around her near empty bowl of stew (which is bland and laced with poor imitations of the authentic ingredients).

“If you refer to the courting ritual of verbal banter humans use to gauge one another’s romantic or sexual interest, you are incorrect. Neither I nor Cadet Gaila are human.” He pauses, before adding, “I do not flirt.”

“Gaila does.” Nyota still does not meet his gaze.

“With _everyone_ ,” adds Sonia, sitting opposite Nyota. “You’re looking a bit green.”

Nyota shoots her a scowl before saying. “I just thought he should know.”

“Vulcans are immune to Orion charm, if that is what concerns you.” Spock sets his utensil down.

“So what’s your verdict on the food here?” Christie asks from across the table. “We wanted to get an expert opinion.”

“Barely palatable.” Spock replies immediately. “I was not intending to finish my meal.”

This elicits laughter from everyone at the table. “Sorry to put you through this, Commander,” another cadet says. “We can stop somewhere else after?”

“That will not be necessary. I have rations in my quarters.” He places one hand on his lap and one on the table beside him.

“Rations?” Sonia scrunches her nose. “You’re on vacation.”

“I do not need as much sustenance as humans. Rations will be adequate.” He feels Nyota’s hand fall against his, hidden from the others’ view by a floral arrangement. Only Gaila would have seen it, were she here. Nyota does not pull back, and neither of them change their expressions. She tilts her hand slightly so that a tight warmth stretches between their fingers. His heart rate increases by a fraction.

“Commander?” His attention snaps back to Christie.

“Yes?”

“I asked if you had any plans for tonight.” She pauses. “Are you okay?”

“I am fine.” Physically, yes. Otherwise, he is not sure. He is nearly overcome with the rapidly mounting desire ricocheting between his and Nyota’s fingers. He becomes distracted by a fleeting fantasy of relinquishing the table of all its dishes and utensils and replacing them with Nyota’s naked body. He blinks rapidly to rid himself of the image. “I must return to San Francisco early tomorrow morning. After this meal, I will be retiring to my room to rest.”

“We could all probably use some rest,” one of the male cadets says with a stretch. “It’s been quite a weekend.”

“Nyota, are you feeling okay?” Sonia asks in a low voice, leaning over the table. “You look a bit flushed.” She grins. “Are you _still_ hung over?”

Nyota also blinks, swiftly withdrawing her hand and clasping her fingers on her lap. She licks her lips before saying, “I’m okay. Uh, maybe a little hung over.”

Sonia’s eyes wander to Spock. He swallows and looks away, concerned that some micro-expressions on his face might betray the train of thought that under no circumstances belongs at a dinner table amongst colleagues. His already spare appetite for his meal diminishes to none. Still, he humors the cadets who have thus far been good and kind company.

The sky is violet by the time they settle the bill. Spock treats the cadets, as he has a far greater share of credits awarded to him for service than they do, and as a gesture of gratitude for their company during the day. It was the only redeeming feature of this trip.

As their dishes are being cleared Sonia asks Nyota with a casual tone, “Was Jackson able to fix your PADD?”

Nyota pauses before pushing herself away from the table, the heels of her hands resting on its edge. “Yeah.” Her eyes are downcast.

“That’s great. Listen, I’m—”

Spock has endured quite enough. Having bid the other cadets good night, he walks swiftly from the table and into the sand before Sonia has a chance to finish her sentence.

“Commander!” He hears Nyota’s voice following him, but his emotional state is in a precarious position and he does not want to engage it. He risks losing equanimity, more so if he sees her face. “Commander!” she calls again, closer this time. He stops but does not turn. “I’m sorry!” The words are muffled by a gust of wind. She is still several paces behind him, and a wave crashes not far from them. “I didn’t mean any of it! I acted irresponsibly, you have every right to be angry. I’m so _so_ sorry! I never intended to make you so uncomfortable. We can forget about it, if that’s what you want.”

Spock turns. She is right. He is angry, he can feel the low simmer of it. The drawers—his very neat emotional pantry, perfectly sorted and catalogued and labeled—are trembling, bursting, threads unspooling from within them. Her face is pink and gold, shining like a coin. Her eyes creamy brown. He wants to kiss her. “What do you need, Cadet?”

“I just—”

“Do you expect my forgiveness? Reassurance?” His voice cuts through the wind.

She recoils. “I… don’t know.”

“Which _part_ did you not mean? The part in which you referred to me as an ‘asshoe’, or the part in which you wrote that you wanted to see me? Your words were so contradictory that it is logically impossible for you to have ‘meant’ none of it.” A strange role reversal, her watching silently as he snaps.

“Spock, please…” She takes a few steps forward.

“Do you think that because I tolerate your constant insubordination and offensive words, that they do not affect me?”

He sees the familiar flicker in her eyes. Her jaw tightens before she speaks again, more loudly this time. “Then why _do_ you tolerate it?”

They are standing close. Again, he wants to seize her by the shoulders and kiss her, but he does not. He does not answer her question, either. He simply turns and continues walking back towards the hotel, even though she calls after him several times before finally allowing him to leave in peace.

To his utmost distaste, when he arrives at the lobby, Cadet Hunt is waiting for the lift with a coffee in hand.

“Commander.” He nods, a grin creeping onto his face.

“Cadet.” Spock returns his nod curtly.

“Where’s Uhura?” he asks after a pause.

“I do not know.”

“Oh.” Cadet Hunt shrugs. “I just assumed, well, since you came here to see her, after all.”

Spock does not reply. He has interest in neither conversation with Cadet Hunt, nor the implication of his statement. The lift arrives. They step in and Spock waits, hoping someone else might join them. Nobody does, and the lift doors close.

“Listen,” Cadet Hunt turns to him after tapping in his floor number. It is the same floor as Spock’s room. “Whatever was going on between me and Uhura is over, okay?”

“I am aware.” Spock does not look at him.

Cadet Hunt takes a sip of his coffee before saying, tentatively, “Did you two fight again?”

“I do not believe that is of any concern to you.”

Cadet Hunt chuckles. “Typical. You two are so stupid.”

“Be respectful in the presence of a superior officer, Cadet.”

“You know that she’s like, seriously into you, right? She’s just bad at… all of it, really.”

Spock does not respond to this. Does he know? There have been small snatches of evidence revealing Nyota’s feelings, but he hesitates to draw any conclusions. He cannot risk being incorrect.

They reach their floor and step out of the lift. Cadet Hunt begins walking in the opposite direction. A few paces away he stops and turns, saying, “You two could really make each other happy, if you got out of your own way.” Spock opens his mouth, but Cadet Hunt raises his hands in surrender, adding, “I know, I know. It’s none of my business. I’m just saying. Enjoy the rest of your trip, Commander.”

“You as well, Cadet.” Spock replies with a stiff nod. He will remember this encounter years later, when Cadet Hunt’s name appears on the list of casualties in Nero’s attack. Nyota will be the only current member of the Academy Chorale to survive the battle.

By the time Spock reaches his room, it is almost dark. The night above the bright planet is impossibly starry, its two false moons eternally full in the sky. Rather than turn on his lights, Spock sits on the floor and engages in a brief meditation. The anger is still there in his chest. He unwraps it, peels it away like petals enclosing the hot feeling at its core—hurt. He cradles the fresh emotion until it cools, then puts it away in the overflowing compartment of feelings associated with Nyota. He is unsure how long it will be before he can close it properly.

After about half an hour, he takes out the ka’athyra that has followed him from New York to Iowa and then Wrigley’s. He sits in one of the chairs on the balcony and begins to play. He only has one evening of respite before he returns to San Francisco, to work, to solitude. He plays the song that has stayed with him all these years—his and Nyota’s. He can almost hear her voice singing along.

No, he _can_ hear her voice singing along. He stops playing. “Nyota?” He hazards. The song stops.

“Hi Spock.” The voice replies meekly. “Are you still angry?”

He stands and places his ka’athyra on the chair. He leans over the rail, looks down, then up. He sees the black of her hair hanging from the balcony above one floors and over two rooms from his. “No,” he says.

She tilts her head and her face just barely emerges in the moonlight. “You were playing our song.”

“I was.”

“You remember it so well.”

“I have a—”

“I know, I know. A perfect memory.” She looks away, out into the beach. The light catches her jawline pointing to the sea.

“And… it was significant,” he concedes. “You were significant.”

She doesn’t reply for a long moment, just lets the wind and waves fill the space between them. Finally, she says, “Why are we always fighting?”

“I apologize for my loss of control earlier. Though, it seems you are much more often displeased with my behavior.” Spock hears her laughter and a smile tugs at his lips.

“I’m sorry. I feel like it’s mostly my fault. It’s not that I’m displeased with you. You’re… nice. I didn’t want you to be. It would have been easier to leave you alone if you weren’t.”

“The fault is mutual.” Spock admits, resting his elbows on the rail. “I should not have allowed us to become so familiar. But…”

“But?”

How can he articulate it? The force of her pull on him, a gravitational anomaly in his consciousness. Remarkable, really. He has always known that there is little logic to Vulcan desire and many contradictions in human attraction, but he never truly understood it until he met her. A string of unlikely circumstances has sewn them together. If there is any truth to multiverse theory, he finds it improbable that there would be many alternate timelines in which they could have this relationship. Yet, if he were able to choose, he would choose this one every time.

“What room are you?” she asks when he doesn’t respond.

“608,” he says. He waits for her to reply, but when he leans forward to find her, the balcony is empty.

Spock returns to his dark room and puts away his ka’athyra. He concentrates on regulating his heartbeat, which has stubbornly begun to increase in pace. Will she come? What will he say if she does? He has only moments to construct the sentences—the optimal way to convey everything he is unable to articulate. He hears her footsteps in the hallway before the chime and when his door slides open every word he has formulated suddenly seems inadequate.

Instead of attempting a conversation, Nyota steps into the room and kisses him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. It is a much gentler kiss than the last time they were intimate—a slow pressure, her mouth closed. When they break off, his mouth comes away sticky with gloss. He runs his tongue quickly over his lips—they taste sweet, like fruit.

He realizes that he still has not turned the lights on. The gleam of two moons and the building’s lights casts a pale glow on her skin and catches her lashes. Her eyes pierce black into his. “This is ridiculous,” she says in a low voice, her hands still on his shoulders.

“I do not know what you refer to.”

“That we keep hurting each other.”

Spock places a hand on her cheek and runs his thumb along her cheekbone. “Considering we have both studied linguistics extensively and are quite proficient in the subject, we miscommunicate surprisingly often.”

She smiles and leans into his hand. “Funny how that happens.”

“I do not find it amusing.”

“Then how do you find it?” Her face draws closer.

He tilts his head. “Exceedingly frustrating.”

“You’re pretty concise.” Her voice drops to nearly a whisper. “Tell me, most efficiently, how you feel about me.”

Spock pauses and considers this. For once, he is at a loss. He does not know how to derive the most economical way to convey everything. “I cannot.”

Nyota pulls back slightly, her smile faltering from her face. Her eyebrows twitch and draw in. She says, so quietly that he might have missed it without his sharp Vulcan ears, “I love you,” and in that moment his blood seems to rush faster, sharpening every detail of her face. “I don’t even know for how long. Maybe from the beginning, even though I barely knew you, and it makes no sense, but I—”

Despite being a typically respectful listener who allows his companions to complete their point before asserting his own, Spock does not allow Nyota to finish her thought. He wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her body against his and kisses her. With his other hand, he touches the fingers still resting on his shoulder and feels the same rush in her veins, the rapid patter of her heartbeat.

She pulls away with her eyes still shut tight and curls her fingers into her palm. “No, I can’t do this. I don’t even know if you have the capacity to feel the way I do.”

“I do,” Spock replies quickly, his gaze unfaltering. “ _Words are inadequate to describe Vulcan emotion,”_ he says in his native tongue. _“It is complex.”_

Nyota opens her eyes then, and looks up at him with a gaze that is puzzled and also inquisitive. Even in the low light, he can see her complexion darken. _“Attempt to explain, and I will endeavor to understand.”_

He steps away from her and holds both her hands in his. “May I show you?” He can feel her curiosity grow between his fingers.

Spock had a chance to research a number of things in his free time on the console in his quarters on the _Enterprise_. After ruminating on how to best convey his feelings to Nyota and coming up with no acceptable solution, he had done extensive reading on Vulcan-human mind melds. Particularly, the light emotional touch shared by Vulcan lovers. It accesses only working memories of the recipient—momentary emotions and recollections—without touching deeper parts of the consciousness. He decided that if he could not express himself with words, he would have to do so telepathically. (Unsurprisingly, much of the reading materials were papers written with his parents as the subject—they were one of the first high profile Vulcan-human couples. He now knows far more about their intimate relations than he would ever share with them.)

He had abandoned the idea of melding with Nyota earlier that day, chiding himself for being hasty. Yet here they are, Nyota tipping her head with interest at the proposition. He pulls her towards the bed and motions for her to sit.

“ _A mind meld. I am familiar with it_ ,” Nyota says in Vulcan as he kneels before her. “ _However, I do not want to open my mind completely to yours_.”

“ _It will be superficial—not the full access granted by a bond or a comprehensive mental link. It will be exclusively what we are currently experiencing._ ” He places his hands on her knees.

She touches his ear and he tries to ignore the jolting sensation it sends through his skin. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

He hesitates. He holds her wrist and slides his hand up to meet her fingers. “I must be honest. It is stronger than the telepathic grazing you experience from my hands. When our minds touch, they will change each other. We may become irreversibly connected.”

Nyota smiles and touches his cheek with her other hand. “Aren’t we already?”

“Are you certain you would like to proceed?”

“ _I am_ ,” Nyota says firmly in Vuhlkansu, closing her eyes and leaning her face forward. Spock touches her cheek and gently kisses her before pulling back and pressing her fingers into her cheekbones. She inhales sharply as he peels back the first layer between their minds.

Spock has never known a mind so full of music. Between every thread of thought there is a snatch of song, a shifting score that accompanies her consciousness. It is bright and beautiful. He lays his affection over it softly, like the thin blanket of snow over the city the night they first kissed. It melts into the heat of her chaotic, undisciplined mind and together they form a warm lake of mutual attraction.

Nyota exhales as the link settles into itself. He has clean access to her mind now, the way it sprints energetically from thought to thought. Currently, her every thought is concerned with him: the ka’athyra in his small hands when they were children, the way his voice made her skin tingle when he lectured at the front of class, how she admired the broad shape of his shoulders as she pursued him down the hallway. The incessant frustration when he refused to acknowledge her. The sound of his ka’athyra weaves in and out of the recollections. He reaches between their minds to turn her attention to his thoughts: how often he thought of her in the years between their meetings, the way he avoided her because he was drawn to her, and the frustration he felt at the notion that she might dislike him. He lets her feel, rather than explain, the constant flicker of his affection for her.

 _Love me_ , they seem to beg each other.

 _I do_ , they call back in echoes.

With this, they form a feedback loop that eventually becomes a pleasant ring, like a tuning fork.

At last, Spock releases her. They stare at each other in a long moment of silence. She begins to smile, and he does as well, in their mutual realization of the tautological nature of their misunderstandings.

“We’re so stupid,” Nyota says.

“We have indeed acted foolishly. Let us not repeat such behavior.”

They will, of course. On many occasions, they will miscommunicate, misunderstand, argue, apologize—but never over the point of their affection for each other. That, at least, is never doubted again.

For now, in this fresh moment of clarity, they press their foreheads together. It feels as though they have reached the end of a decade long journey. She pulls him towards her so his body slides between her knees and presses her lips against his. It is a tender kiss, as if she is being solicitous of how he has opened himself to her. Though he finds the gesture pleasant, his body responds more eagerly. The kiss quickly becomes rough and hot, tongues invading, lips slipping between teeth. His skin begins to feel warm, the hum of arousal spreading with each heartbeat. He pushes his hips more tightly against hers, runs his hands up her legs and under her dress. He trails his lips down along her jaw to her neck, tasting the smooth skin, feeling the rhythm of her pulse beating beneath it. She sighs and tilts her head up, her fingers finding his hairline at the nape of his neck.

There is no more questioning, no pause between them. Their actions become streamlined—one fluid motion to pull her dress over her body, her breasts falling loose, the fabric dropping to the ground; another for his shirt, a discarded heap of black by the bed. Her hands are impatient on his waistband but he pulls them away and takes her breast into his mouth. He tugs her underwear over her knees and flings it carelessly behind him.

With T’Pring, it had always been an orderly affair: she made her demands (“Angle your hips twenty degrees higher, raise my right knee five centimeters”) and then it was quickly apparent when his performance was satisfactory. The last time they were intimate, she had seemed disappointed. “There is no fire in your veins,” she said as she began picking up her clothes. “Is human intercourse always this way?” He now realizes that she had likely initiated her affair with Stonn by then. He can only assume that Stonn provided something he could not. Spock knew that there was something missing, especially in their lukewarm telepathic links, and he attributed it to his own deficiencies.

But it is not that way with Nyota. Perhaps it is the constant restraint he has to employ in her presence that causes his body to burn. By the time he is permitted to touch her, his mind is in complete disarray. He finds it strangely liberating. Her chest rising and falling, her nipple taut against his tongue, her nails scraping his bare shoulders—he allows the physicality of it to dominate his thoughts. He likes that she does not speak, but simply pulls his body where she wants it, presses herself against him.

He pushes his hand between them and slides his fingers between her legs. She shivers as he traces the wet line with his fingertips, and he can feel himself growing tight against his clothes.  He pushes her back onto the bed, kissing her ribcage, then her stomach as he bends forward, parts her knees at the edge of the bed. He sucks the soft skin on the inside of her thigh, inhales the damp scent in between, like a forest after fresh rain. He kisses it, opens his mouth to the slightly metallic tang. He parts the slick flesh and explores it with his tongue. Her breathing is coming in uneven pants now, and he can feel his own growing thick and heavy. She lets out a small whimper and rocks her hips against his mouth. He repeats the motion and her back arches just slightly. Then her hands are in his hair grasping at the roots as she leads him into the right position, gasping, “ _Please,_ ” in a way that makes him grip her legs more tightly. He hazards a glance just as she comes. Her eyes are squeezed tight and her chin presses into her shoulder as a small sound escapes her with the last gasp.

His pants are stripped off in moments and she is trying to sit up, shift backwards to make space for him on the bed but he is clumsy and impatient, pulling her knees around him and brushing against the streak of wetness that might be her or might be from his own mouth. She allows herself to be tugged to the edge of the bed, lifts her arms over her head and he is caught for a moment staring at her form, exquisite in the faint silver light. _Nyota_. He had, out of curiosity, once sought out the meaning of her name. In this moment he sees the way it suits her, as she appears to be made entirely of starlight. Their eyes meet but she is impatient too, squeezing her legs and pulling him closer, pressing him inside her.

His eyes don’t leave her for a moment, even as hers flutter to a close. He watches the way her whole body trembles with every motion, the way the light catches and releases different parts of her skin and hair. His mouth parts to allow the increased pace of his breathing to flow more easily. Nyota’s breath is clipped with soft snatches of her voice. Just as the pitch and cadence begins to change, her eyes open, disrupting his reverie as she turns away from him and scrambles to her knees. He will soon learn that this is the position she prefers, after many repeated sessions like this one. He leans forward to hold one of her hands in his. When she comes again he feels the shudder of it in his lungs, even as he is watching her shifting shoulder blades, the line following her spine down to the small dimples in her lower back.

There is a singular satisfaction in performing without instruction. It makes him feel autonomous in a way he has fought to be his whole life, making decisions purposefully so that they would feel his own. Meeting, fighting with, pursuing, and pleasing Nyota is exhilarating in a way few things have been. She has altered him, subtly chipped away at the person he might have become without her, into someone unexpected.

She pulls him onto the bed and he lets her press him down against the neatly made sheets. She climbs over him, trails her fingernails lightly down his chest. He does not yet know how often he will enjoy this sight, and lets her rock against him slowly at first, imprinting it into his mind. He places his hands on her hips and she weaves her fingers into his. He feels her pleasure tangle with his, stretching it to his limit as it swells. At this rate, he will leave her behind. He pulls one hand out of hers and presses it between them, just above where their bodies connect. Her breathing stutters, and she manages to utter a half moan, half whisper of “Yes, like that,” followed by a stream of profanities in several languages. Spock does not understand every word, but the rough whisper is arousing nonetheless, and he can feel himself approaching his climax with every stroke. Their connected hands squeeze tighter, a white knuckle grip on her thigh, and she shoves his hand out from between them and replaces it with her own. Her breath begins to catch and he grasps the hair behind her neck and pulls her body towards him, wanting to press her as close as possible, feel her body’s warm quiver against his. Her orgasm pushes a breathy moan against his cheek and he is unable to restrain the low groan that escapes his throat as he finishes.

Nyota falls limp against him and he wraps his arms around her, enjoying the weight of her body sticky against his own.

“Was that satisfactory?” he asks between quick breaths as he attempts to calm his racing heart.

She laughs into his shoulder. “More than satisfactory,” she murmurs, turning her head so that her nose is nestled just under his jaw.

They share a serene silence filled with breaking waves and the distant laughter of hotel patrons outside the entrance. He knows that they should rise, clean up, get some rest, but he does not know when they will be able to be like this again. He is content to hold her for a moment longer, basking in her affection.

She breaks the quiet moment with soft laughter.

“What amuses you?” he asks, weaving his fingers into her hair.

“Just… can you just say ‘asshoe’ again. Please.”

“… Asshoe.”

She laughs a little harder, her breath tickling his neck.

He smiles, just slightly. “It was a word of your invention.”

In a not-so-distant future, their crewmates on the _Enterprise_ will ask after their courtship—how the two of them, of all people, had become engaged in a romantic affair. Spock will reply, “She was insubordinate and argumentative,” and Nyota will say, “He was a temperamental pain in my ass, really,” and nobody will quite believe either of them, or understand how that might have lead to their relationship.

Nyota lifts herself onto her elbows so that they are facing each other, her hair falling in gentle curtains around them. “Can we do this again?”

“I would find that acceptable.”

“And other things, too?”

“Specify?”

“I don’t know. Playing music together. Going places. Trying things. Reading together? Normal stuff.”

“I would also find that acceptable.” He tilts his head. “However, I must return to the Academy tomorrow morning.”

Her smile twists into a look of uncertainty. There are many unknowns in what comes next, how their anomalous relationship will fit into the lives they lead at the Academy. Though it is not expressly forbidden, discretion will be advisable.

Spock is in the midst of considering all these factors when Nyota traces her fingers along his hairline, bringing his attention back to her dark eyes. “Well…” She places a quick peck on his lips. “We’ll just have to improvise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took so long for me to get this out there; life suddenly became very busy. I hope some of you are still around for the end! Thank you so much for reading this trope-happy fic. It was a lot of fun to write. :)


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